


A Matter of Evidence

by Mottlemoth



Series: Dr Holmes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Deception and Danger, Emotional Abuse, Emotional Sex, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Forbidden Love, Gaslighting, Helen Lestrade Reaches Peak Helen, Hurt/Comfort, Jellybean Mycroft, M/M, Manipulation, Mutual Pining, Protective Greg Lestrade, Secret Relationship, Therapist/Patient, sex therapy au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25859554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Dr Mycroft Holmes never expected to fall this deeply in love, least of all with a former patient. But the time for second thoughts is long gone. Greg Lestrade is everything Mycroft ever wanted, even if it leaves his future on the line. Their only hope for happiness together lies in disproving the shocking accusations of Greg's abusive ex-wife, Helen—some of which are painfully true.As they struggle to protect each other from the world, Greg and Mycroft end up pushed to their limits.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Dr Holmes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697182
Comments: 191
Kudos: 352





	1. Fabrications

**Author's Note:**

> This is the 50th Mystrade work I've posted on AO3. <3 It feels like a good one to hit the milestone with. Before we get going, quick notes.
> 
> \- You might notice that I've changed the archive warning. Immediate reassurance: I do not write MCD. I won't ever show you rape or under-age sex taking place. I've chosen this option because of a historic event which affected a minor character, an event which will come to light during the story. Again, nothing will be shown. But please only read if you're happy for this tale to continue its journey through some shadowy places. 
> 
> \- We're heading at speed towards a happily ever after for a therapist/patient relationship. If you're not cool with that, give that back button a tap for me and have a lovely life.
> 
> \- I'll post chapter warnings in the end notes like I did with _Question of Ethics_. If you want a quick glimpse of what's involved in each new chapter, just click the link. 
> 
> \- Updates are going to be infrequent and there could be delays between chapters. The pandemic is hitting me hard. I want to post each chapter when they're ready, rather than rush out a half-hearted mess. Your patience and understanding are very much appreciated.
> 
> \- Let me know if you're here and enjoying the story. Your encouragement helps more than I can express. The last third of a story always seems to be the toughest for me, and it makes things so much better if I know you guys are there. Thank you so much for following along so far. I can't wait to hear what you think. 
> 
> \- **I don't allow translations. If you find this story posted to any site other than AO3, please let me know.**
> 
> Without further ado, let's begin. <3

**Friday 19th June**

Mycroft had never once felt at ease in this room. It wasn't necessarily the presence of Diane, whom he found uncharming but straightforward, a very tolerable combination of traits in a superior. Outside of her office, she was generally painless to deal with. 

But being in her space was just a step too far inside her mind. 

She'd arranged all her furniture against the furthest wall, cabinets and bookshelves and the coatstand all hunched in one long and miserable line, waiting their turn to shuffle forwards and be told off. Their heights didn't match. Their depths didn't match. They almost certainly stood in the order that they'd entered Diane's possession, and she'd simply added one item after another to the queue. It made Mycroft's teeth itch to behold. Unable to fasten it to the rest of her furniture string, she'd shunted her desk into a corner where it received no natural light, then crammed it with knick-knacks and reminders of home.

It was uniquely unsettling to sit here in judgement while her children and the family labrador all beamed at him from mismatched frames—but he had little choice in the matter.

He kept his face clean as Diane sifted through her papers, preparing herself. His heart drummed out a steady warning on his ribs.

"As you're aware, Mycroft," she began, "a number of alarming allegations have been made regarding your professional conduct. As the clinic's manager, I intend to look into this matter with the utmost seriousness."

Mycroft nodded, his hands folded calmly in his lap. "I'm pleased to hear it," he said. "I only hope for Mrs Lestrade's sake that we'll be able to resolve this issue sensitively."

Diane fixed him with her stare for a moment, her pond-grey eyes expressionless behind her rectangular glasses. She was a difficult woman to read, in the same way that rocks and bare walls can be difficult to read. Her world was founded on spreadsheets and procedures; it left very little for a therapist to go on.

"In advance of this meeting," she said, "you were supplied with a list of the specific allegations against you, and also a copy of the letter which raised them. You and I will now discuss these claims. I'll take the opportunity to seek further information from you, in order to develop my understanding of the situation. Anthea has agreed to take notes," she added, with a brief gesture at the young lady scribbling shorthand at lightning speed in the other corner. "She does so under an agreement of the strictest confidentiality. Are you happy to proceed?"

Mycroft ignored the quiet thud of his heart. "Entirely," he said.

"Very well." Diane took a breath—a rather deep one.  _ A practice manager's worst nightmare,  _ Mycroft thought.  _ And I shall make it go away.  _ "Mycroft," she began, staring into his eyes. "Is there any truth at all to these allegations?"

Mycroft held her gaze. "No, Diane," he murmured. "I can assure you they have no basis in fact."

Nothing changed in her face. "They're  _ lurid _ allegations."

"They are," he agreed. "And it's a mark of the clinic's commitment to patient welfare that they're being addressed the same as any other. I don't resent this process. I'm happy to assist however I can in putting the matter to rest."

Diane regarded him motionlessly over her glasses, trying to work something out. "You are  _ not _ engaged in a sexual affair with this patient?" she confirmed.

Anthea's pen skipped briefly in its scrawling, then slid onwards with admirable composure.

"Nor any other," Mycroft said, pristinely calm. "To complete your understanding, Gregory Lestrade is a  _ former _ patient. I saw him for a small number of sessions towards the end of last year. Due to a change in his circumstances, he was transferred to Dr Sahasrabuddhe's care before Christmas and remained with her until May, I believe." Watching Anthea write, Mycroft added, "I've not had any kind of intimate relations with him. His wife is mistaken."

"She seems to believe they were both patients of yours," Diane said, checking her papers. "Her letter says you gave them marital counselling."

"I'm afraid that's not correct," Mycroft said. He reached for the slim folder he'd brought with him, flipping it open as he spoke. "And to warn you, Diane, that might become something of a theme during this discussion..."

He turned through the pages with care, resisting the natural instinct towards haste. Two decades of giving therapy had made Mycroft into a mechanic of the human mind, and this particular component was one of its most basic. Slow people were honest people. They spoke calmly and steadily, unafraid of short stretches of quiet. Only liars felt the need to hurry and dance and distract.

"The Lestrades approached the clinic as a couple," Mycroft went on, ignoring the twitches of his fingers to turn faster. "While they did have their induction session with me, I never conducted any of Mrs Lestrade's treatment." He slid a contract free from inside the folder, offering it over the desk. "This is Mrs Lestrade's contract," he said as Diane took it, "signed ahead of her course of therapy with Dr Sahasrabuddhe. A small error on Mrs Lestrade's part, but I realise you'll want to have absolutely all the facts at your disposal."

Diane glanced down at the contract, checking the two signatures with a flicker of her eyes. "But the husband  _ was  _ your patient?"

"He was." Mycroft produced another contract with another two signatures:  _ Dr Mycroft Holmes  _ and _ Mr Gregory Lestrade,  _ side by side in his own Diamine Registrars blue-black. Expressionless, he passed it across the desk. "Mr Lestrade had some minor self-esteem issues, which he and I made excellent progress on. I understand from Dr Sahasrabuddhe—who is eager to speak with you on this matter—that her sessions with Mr Lestrade have focused more on his wife's recent infidelity."

Diane blinked, briefly taken aback.  _ "Mrs _ Lestrade's infidelity?"

Mycroft closed his folder, resting his hands atop of it. "I can appreciate why she decided to leave it out of her letter."

Diane took a moment to arrange a few things in her mind, quite possibly in one single line. "Is this confirmed infidelity?" she checked.

"It is. I understand they're now divorcing over it." Mycroft glanced towards Anthea, watching her write. "This is obviously an emotionally fraught situation for the Lestrades. How it's handled will affect them both severely. Our discretion is critical."

Diane hummed. "We also need to consider how it will affect  _ you,  _ Mycroft."

"Will a false allegation affect me?" Mycroft said, allowing a slight frown to crease his forehead. "I do hope not."

"A sexual relationship between a therapist and a patient constitutes a violation of every ethical tenet of practice. Even the hinted possibility of one is gravely serious. These are staggering accusations."

"And they're untrue."

"She seems deeply convinced of what she's claiming."

"Give me five minutes," Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow, "and I'll provide you with the records of at least ten current patients who are deeply convinced they're being monitored by the British security services. Conviction does not evince truth."

Diane processed this in silence. "You're suggesting that this is a delusion of some kind on Mrs Lestrade's part, then."

"As I've never acted as her therapist," Mycroft said, "I'm reluctant to offer specific suggestions. Dr Sahasrabuddhe would be better placed to do that. What I can tell you with certainty is that I have never engaged in any manner of intimacy with Gregory Lestrade."

"So you refute these claims?"

"Utterly."

"But what on earth has given her this impression? Surely she hasn't conjured it out of nothing."

Mycroft kept his hands where they were in his lap, rejecting the sudden need to fix his hair. 

"Candidly," he said, "I received the impression during the Lestrades' induction that Mrs Lestrade was entertaining certain assumptions about male sex therapists. She was very uncomfortable in my presence and disliked me speaking to her husband at all. It was creating a barrier between us which would prove unconducive to therapy, which is why I recommended her into Ananya's care."

The corner of Diane's mouth pulled. "It's still a jump to decide you're having sex with her husband."

"Not entirely. She holds me responsible for the separation. She's simply located it somewhere more comfortable in her mind."

"In what way?"

"I arrived on the scene very shortly before the earthquake struck," Mycroft said. "She's mistakenly perceived a causal link. I suspect it's... offensive to her very particular psyche that Mr Lestrade has chosen to separate from her. It's reassuring to believe that he's been taken by someone, rather than to accept he left of his own accord."

Diane frowned and looked down at her papers, visibly trying to believe it. The muscles around her mouth had bunched; she dearly wanted to say the words.

Reminding himself to speak evenly, Mycroft went on.

"To this," he said, "she's added a few common or garden assumptions about gay men, marinated her thoughts in a number of unfortunate mental health issues, and reached a wrong conclusion: that I'm sexually dangerous, that Mr Lestrade and I are in cahoots with one another to discredit her, and that the breakdown of her marriage is therefore not her fault. To Mrs Lestrade, this seems a valid possibility. To any reasonable mind, it clearly isn't. And given that she's already been escorted once from these premises by police, I believe we should discuss some new precautions for my security."

Alarmed, Diane glanced quickly towards Anthea, who was scribbling at a speed in danger of producing smoke. "Is this the woman who—?"

Anthea offered a mute nod, her eyes down, still writing.

Mycroft allowed his frown to return. "Didn't you make that connection yourself? I thought you'd have recognised Helen Lestrade's name at once. Anthea and I supplied full statements to you after the incident."

Pressing her tongue into her cheek, Diane sat up a little in her chair. She put down her papers and laid her hands upon then, fingers gated, her eyes on Mycroft. 

"This is your response then," she said. "The wife is suffering some level of delusion, the allegations are completely untrue, and you're prepared to explain this to your professional body if necessary."

Mycroft deepened his frown. "Has Mrs Lestrade been in touch with them? I hadn't received notice."

Diane inhaled, preparing herself. "Mycroft," she began. "These allegations are of such a serious nature that—"

Mycroft cut in at once. "The only other person who might contact them is  _ you,  _ Diane, referring it to their attention. And I'm certain you wouldn't have done so."

Diane said nothing, phrasing her response with care. "It's my duty to decide if that's necessary," she said at last. "Allegations regarding a sexual relationship with a patient are  _ extremely _ serious, Mycroft. I need to ensure this is being addressed."

Mycroft took a moment to allow this comment to sink, forcing himself to remain calm. He could not panic; he could not make any display of fear. A referral to his professional body would prompt a level of scrutiny he'd much rather avoid.

Anger beckoned quietly from the shadows, offering him its help. 

"I'm afraid I disagree," he said, regarding Diane with sharp and rising displeasure. "I think your motive for referring this would be to ensure that you're seen addressing it. Didn't you apply for a role as a case manager with them last year?"

Her shoulders stiffened. "Mycroft, patient safety is—"

"A role you weren't awarded due to lack of experience. Has my response not satisfied you?"

"Mycroft—"

"If you have such a lack of faith in me," Mycroft said, raising his voice, "perhaps a referral  _ would _ be best, Diane. I look forward to presenting the case manager with my immaculate career history, faultless professionalism and enough testimonies from my patients to sink a Spanish galleon. I'll then be approaching the clinic to recover my lawyer's costs."

Diane's eyes flashed with momentary panic. She sat up, readjusting her expression. "That won't be necessary."

"Won't it?" Mycroft returned, one eyebrow arched. "It's one thing for a confused and vulnerable woman to lash out in anger and make unfounded homophobic accusations. It's quite another to receive them directly from my employer."

"It's vital we establish the  _ facts _ of this situation," Diane said hotly. "These are  _ spectacular _ allegations, Mycroft. I have to be certain they're untrue before I can respond to them."

"That is fair," he said, sharp. "It seems I've made an error. I assumed the ludicrous nature of this allegation, viewed within the context of my faultless track record, would speak for itself. But for the record, I'll once again make myself plain."

He fixed Diane with the full force of his stare across her desk, speaking slowly and clearly for Anthea's notes.

"I deny," he said, "that I have engaged in sexual contact with any patient under my care. It is  _ untrue. _ Whether the accusation is malicious, misguided or just mistaken, it it  _ false." _

Diane's cheek twitched, listening in silence as Anthea scribbled.

Mycroft settled back into his chair, drawing a breath to compose himself. "In her letter, Mrs Lestrade gives no indication of how she discovered I'm supposedly engaged in an affair with her husband. She gives no details of anything. There are no dates, Diane. No times, no incidents." 

He shook his head, his eyes narrow.

"It's because these are the fabrications of an ill and unhappy mind," he said. "It's irresponsible of you to imbue them with such weight. I wish you'd spoken to Dr Sahasrabuddhe, ascertained a little more about Mrs Lestrade's current state of mind, before approaching me. She could have told you all this. I'd have been spared this startling display of mistrust, which I'm afraid I'll struggle to forget."

As Diane opened her mouth to respond, there came a brisk and nervous knock on the door. The hinges squeaked.

"Sorry, Diane—"

"Could you kindly wait please, Bethany? This is a confidential discussion."

"I know, Diane. I'm sorry. But there's a gentleman at reception asking to speak with you or Dr Holmes. He says his name's Greg Lestrade and it's important."

Diane's eyes flashed across the desk.

Mycroft maintained his blank expression, unmoved. "I'll leave the room if you wish," he said. "Though he did ask to speak to us both."

Diane said nothing, visibly thinking. In the silence Mycroft's heart seemed to shift, still beating as quick and hard as it had when he'd first entered the office. Its nervous pleas weren't usually so ignored. This was awful.

As he watched Diane's expression, he caught the very moment when the chance to see for herself proved too much.

"Bring Mr Lestrade through please, Bethany," Diane said.

Bethany gave a quick nod and left, closing the door with a click. 

As they waited together in strained silence, Anthea quietly shook the cramp from her hand.

"Did you contact him?" Diane asked, eyeing Mycroft over her glasses.

Mycroft brushed a speck of nothing from his knee. "By text message last night."

"Why?"

"A courtesy to a former patient. He wasn't aware she'd planned to do this. I offered him my reassurances that the clinic would understand, though it seems I was premature in that."

The lump of Diane's tongue appeared within her cheek. "Do you have copies of these messages?"

After a lengthy pause, Mycroft reached inside his jacket. He retrieved his phone and unlocked it without looking, then tossed it onto her desk in utter silence.

Breathing in, Diane opted not to check. "Good," she muttered. "That's... fine. I'm relieved to hear it."

Mycroft kept his tone as level as he could. "I've given many years of my life to this clinic, Diane."

"Then you'll understand that I want to keep its patients safe."

"From what, precisely?"

"From unethical practitioners," Diane said, staring into his eyes. "Engaging in predatory behaviour. Taking advantage of vulnerable people. Abusing a position of trust for their own selfish gain. I can't stomach the thought of that happening beneath my roof."

Mycroft's heart clenched.

_ It isn't predatory,  _ he almost said.  _ I didn't take advantage. It was not for my own gain. _

With a breath, he let it go. "Mud sticks," he told her instead, guarded. "Please throw only what you must."

She nodded stiffly, lowering her eyes. 

The door reopened, admitting Bethany and their visitor. Mr Lestrade seemed ill at ease to find himself admitted into a meeting, his dark eyes flashing with discomfort as they scanned the number of people present. 

Diane got up from her desk.

"Mr Lestrade," she said, brushing down her skirtsuit, and offered out a hand. Greg took hold of it, his jaw tight and his cheeks rather pale. "I'm Diane Jarratt. I'm the clinic manager."

"Hi," he muttered. "I'd have been happy to wait. I don't mean to..." He gestured uncomfortably.

"Not at all," Diane said. "As it happens, we were just in discussion. You're welcome to join us. Can we get you a tea or coffee?"

"Erm, no. I'm fine. Thanks." As Anthea brought over another chair, setting it down beside Mycroft's, Mr Lestrade gave her a nervous look of gratitude. "Thank you..."

He took a seat with reluctance, drew a breath, and awkwardly inclined his head towards Mycroft.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just... I-I don't have a clue what's going through her head. I know I said last night. I just can't apologise enough."

Mycroft nodded quietly, keeping his eyes to himself. "It's quite alright, Mr Lestrade."

"I don't know what the hell she thinks she's doing. I'm so sorry."

"You've nothing to apologise for," Mycroft said, layering his voice with calm. He turned his head to meet the dark brown eyes reaching so anxiously for his own, and held them for a moment, offering reassurance. "This is a misunderstanding," he said. "I've every faith it will be corrected."

Mr Lestrade's face betrayed no comfort. He nodded awkwardly, then turned towards Diane.

"He's not getting grief for this, is he?" he said. "I'm really sorry. This has been my life for six months now, one thing then another. She's off the rails. She's only getting worse. I knew she'd do  _ something  _ to punish me for the injunction but... Jesus, I don't know why she's gunning for you guys."

"Injunction?" Diane queried.

Mr Lestrade shifted, glancing with unease towards Anthea. "Is this all..."

"It's completely confidential."

"You're... writing it down though, are you?"

"For our records," Diane said. "I promise you it won't leave this room."

Mr Lestrade looked down, shifting again in his chair. "Applied for it on Monday," he said. "Non-molestation order. She's been, erm... sitting outside my house, following me. Since Christmas. They'll have notified her by now. I don't know if this would even count as violating it. Suppose it's another way for her to humiliate me."

He took a shaking breath.

"I kinda need you to throw this out," he said. "I can't let this... sorry. But I lead a major crimes CID team. I need their respect. You can't start circulating some suggestion I had gay sex with my therapist. Please don't do that to me."

"We'll be handling this with the greatest discretion," Diane said, trying to add reassurance to her voice. It didn't suit her, coming across as mildly patronising. "The results from any investigation—"

_ "Investigation?"  _ Mr Lestrade cut across her, alarmed. "What's to investigate?" He turned in desperation to Mycroft. "Are they taking this seriously?" he demanded, his gaze wide and begging. Mycroft's pulse sped in response. "What am I going to have to deal with now? Can't you just tell them it's not true?"

Mycroft sat up a little in his seat, unnerved. "I've done so," he said. "Believe me, I'm as keen as you are that this goes away."

"She's out of her head," Mr Lestrade protested. "It's that simple. She's just... this is mind games. That's all this is. It's  _ always _ bloody mind games. This is my ex's bizarre new idea to punish me," he said, staring wildly at Diane. "She's got problems, and I really need you guys not to encourage her in this.  _ Please. _ If she gets any sign that this is a way she can keep digging her claws into my life—"

Diane raised her voice, still trying to reassure him, just at greater volume. "Mr Lestrade, any investigation wouldn't be into  _ your  _ conduct."

"Listen," he said, shaking, "with respect:  _ yes, it would. _ And you'll be giving her exactly what she wants."

"An affair with a patient would constitute an extreme breach of ethics for a therapist working in sex and relationships. It's something that the profession and this clinic absolutely could not tolerate. We have to take even the suggestion of it very seriously."

The last of the colour seemed to drain from Mr Lestrade's face. "An affair," he repeated. "That's... h-he's never laid a hand on me. Not once."

Mycroft kept his eyes forwards, trained with absolute calm on Diane.

"Are you actually taking it seriously?" Mr Lestrade said, his voice breaking. "Are you honestly... Jesus, I wasn't even  _ with _ Dr Holmes most of the time I was here. I was with Ananya. Has Helen said I'm having an affair with her too? Is this really happening?"

Diane held her silence, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

"I'm already dealing with a divorce," Mr Lestrade went on, weak. "That's on top of work, mental health stuff of my own, and her stalking me.  _ Please _ don't validate this for her. If you do, she'll latch onto it and she won't stop. She'll waste as much of your time as she can. She's..."

He put his head into his hands, raking them backwards through his hair.

"Jesus," he whispered. "I shouldn't've tried for an injunction. I should've just..."

Mycroft kept his eyes to the carpet, half-aware of Anthea pausing in her notes. She didn't know if all this should be recorded in full.

_ Write it down, Anthea,  _ he thought. _ Don't leave a single word out. _

Diana gave an unsettled cough, glancing back down at her papers. "I appreciate this is a delicate situation," she said. "Obviously we don't wish to cause you additional distress at a difficult time. We've... not had allegations of particular  _ incidents _ from your wife, which—"

"My ex-wife," Mr Lestrade said quietly. "We're divorcing."

"—ah—yes, of course. Well, it means that an actual investigation would have a restricted scope. I intend to invite Helen to a meeting with me, to ask if she has any evidence to support her claims."

Mycroft intervened at once. "Given that we recently implemented security procedures to  _ prevent _ Mrs Lestrade from entering the building, I protest in the strongest possible terms that you're now inviting her into it."

Diane gave him a weary look, her gaze flickering behind her glasses. "Thank you, Mycroft. A phone call, then. But I'll discuss this issue with Dr Sahasrabuddhe first."

"What about when you've spoken to Helen?" Mr Lestrade asked. "What'll happen then?"

"Well... if she provides evidence to support her claims," Diane said, "I'll have to look into those. If no evidence is offered, we can safely conclude that this was an unsubstantiated allegation. No further action would be taken."

Mr Lestrade seemed to have stopped breathing. He wet his lips with a flash of his tongue, shifting in his chair.

"She's ill," he said, pleading. "She's spent six months stalking me. She's doing this to humiliate me. If you help her to get round the non-molestation order by launching a whole investigation—"

"She won't be given any contact with you," Diane interrupted bluntly.

Mycroft looked away with a lift of one eyebrow, uncomfortably surprised. 

Diane swiftly modulated her tone. "Mr Lestrade," she said, flushing, "I... appreciate your concerns. I'll ensure that at no point in the proceedings will Helen have physical access to you."

Mr Lestrade's throat muscles worked.

"You'll give her mental access though," he said. "Won't you?" He tapped between his eyes. "As much of it as she wants. I should be at work right now. Instead I'm here, dealing with this."

Diane's expression folded.

Before another word could be said, Mycroft leant forwards in his chair. "I believe," he said, "that Dr Sahasrabuddhe is the next step in completing your understanding of this situation, Diane. I'd like to conclude this discussion so I can speak to my lawyer."

Diane stiffened up. "That's unnecessary, Mycroft."

"Is it?" he asked, getting to his feet. "If you're deadset on pursuing this to its fullest, I'd like to hear a legal expert's take on things." He placed a hand on the back of Greg's chair. "Perhaps you'd also like to meet my lawyer, Mr Lestrade. She'd certainly have some things to say to you."

"Mycroft," Diane said, sharply, as Greg got up too. "This is unprofessional."

Mycroft ignored her.

"Mr Lestrade," she tried, a note of panic entering her voice. "I give you my every assurance that the clinic will investigate this matter sensitively and with the utmost discretion."

Mr Lestrade let out an exhausted laugh. "This is your idea of sensitive, is it?" he said. "I came to apologise for the embarrassment she's trying to cause you. Turns out I'm going on trial. Holy shit. If this gets out..."

He turned away in despair, heading towards the door.

Mycroft addressed his final remarks across the desk, retrieving his mobile phone from where he'd tossed it. "Speak to Ananya," he advised. "She'll complete your understanding. Do not bring Helen Lestrade onto these premises. I look forward to your efforts to repair our professional relationship."

He turned, followed Mr Lestrade through the door, and closed it with a sharp snap behind him.

"Can I offer you a drink and somewhere to sit for five minutes, Mr Lestrade?" he said. "I'm extremely sorry. I believed you'd be given far more support than you received."

Greg drew a shaking breath.

"Actually, yeah," he said, not meeting Mycroft's eyes. "Just for a few minutes, that'd be... Jesus, I'm meant to be at work. I-I'm not sleeping well lately. This is the last thing I needed."

Mycroft gestured along the corridor, his heart beating hard. "Head through to my office," he offered, a bastion of professionalism. "Then perhaps you and I should discuss our legal options."

Mr Lestrade nodded, numb, and quietly led the way. 

Mycroft opened the door for him, standing back to let his guest go in first. "This can all be painlessly resolved," he promised. He followed Mr Lestrade inside, easing it shut. "I'm certain of it."

The latch clicked. The room sealed. Greg stepped close, pressed Mycroft up against the door, and claimed his mouth.

They kissed in absolute silence, shaking. Mycroft drove both his hands into Greg's hair and gripped; Greg's arms wrapped tight around Mycroft's waist beneath his jacket, dragging him close. Their hearts slammed together through their chests, calling, shouting, and they kissed until the panic began to fade enough to breathe. Though their lips came apart, the rest of them stayed close. Their foreheads pressed, their clothing rumpled and their faces flushed, eyes still shut.

Greg nuzzled his nose against Mycroft's as they panted, gently butting.

Mycroft swallowed. "I hate the lying," he whispered. "I loathe it, Greg. It seems so..."

Greg's fingers curled against Mycroft's lower back. 

"I don't like it either," he murmured. There came a pause, shared breath and fear. "We're not attacking anyone, love. Just fighting to be left alone."

Shivering, Mycroft tried to make his peace. It was true, even though the facts of this horrifying situation became harder and harder to hold onto with time. Helen Lestrade's manic grip on her husband began the very day Greg decided to walk away from her abuse. The chronology of it all stood in Mycroft's defence: nothing had happened while Greg was his patient; nothing happened before the formal proceedings for divorce were set in motion. All the same, these waters were murky.

The more Helen hounded them, the more of their ethics had to be jettisoned in a desperate effort to stay afloat, or else fashioned into projectiles, flung towards her to try and slow her advance.

"I wish it had stayed as our business," Mycroft murmured, filling his lungs with a breath. "I wish to god this wasn't happening. We're..."

"Adults," Greg said gently, looking into his eyes. "Grown adults. We made our choices. And for what it's worth, I'd still make all of them."

With a nuzzle, Mycroft requested another kiss from his lover's mouth. Greg pressed close to him again, holding him safe here against the door, and met his hopeful lips without a pause. One of his hands slid free from beneath Mycroft's jacket. It stroked down Mycroft's side, slowly, then reached across to the lock.

As Greg turned the key in the door, Mycroft released a nervous breath.  _ Safe,  _ he thought.  _ If only for a while. _

"I've missed you so much," Greg murmured against his mouth, kissing him again. The soft little strokes raised every hair on Mycroft's body. "I promise this'll all go away."

"Five days has seemed..."

"Five fucking years."

"Mm."

"We did the right thing in there, you know that?" Greg said softly. "Everything that's happened between us, I wanted. I ended things with Helen, then I started up with you. She's just leaning on your job so she can hurt you. If you weren't a therapist, love, this wouldn't be an issue."

Mycroft shuddered, closing his eyes. "Please don't remind me."

"Your boss'll contact her, hear she's got no evidence, then throw it out. And we'll cross the biggest worry off our list."

"I just hope Diane doesn't refer it any higher. Christ help me if she does."

"To your professional body?"

"Mm."

"Let her," Greg whispered. "I'll lie to them, too."

Helpless, Mycroft swallowed. "Is there anyone you're  _ not  _ prepared to lie to?"

"No," Greg said calmly, brushing his fingertips against Mycroft's cheek. "This whole thing is our business. Yours and mine, nobody else's in the world. I'm happy and you're happy and we've done nothing wrong." He nuzzled his nose against Mycroft's, his breath gentle against Mycroft's lips. "And I'll lie until everyone just leaves us alone."

Mycroft's chest ached, overwhelmed by the quiet sincerity of it. No one else had ever risen this strength of emotion in him; Greg made it seem so easy, so effortless. If some things were simply meant to be, this was one of them. Mycroft's choice in the matter had been forfeit along ago.

"Feels rather as if we're fighting a hydra," he said. "Doesn't it? Too many heads."

Greg huffed. "Just keep whacking them off," he said. "Concentrate on the nearest one." He cupped Mycroft's face in both hands, gazing into his eyes. "Once the injunction passes, she won't be able to come near me without being arrested. It means she can't collect any evidence and we'll be on our way out of the woods. Have you seen her near your place?"

Mycroft released a breath of relief. "No. Then, it's difficult for me to see much of the street, given how high I am in the building. For all I know, she could have been sitting out there every night. She hasn't found your new flat yet?"

"No sign of it. Lisa says she was sitting outside the house last night, so... guess she thinks I'm still there. Left my car as a decoy." Greg paused, gently kissing Mycroft's mouth. "We'll keep our eyes open," he said. "If she's following you, we'll get you an injunction as well. They're defensive traps. If she falls in, it's because she came to attack us." 

"Mm."

"I know she's been quick off the block, love. But we're quicker."

_ We also have far more to lose.  _ Mycroft opted not to say it, sure he didn't need to. He closed his eyes instead, resting his forehead against Greg's, and wished they were somewhere more private. He didn't know if he wanted to sob on Greg's shoulder or kiss him. Either would helped.

Greg gave him a few moments to settle, holding him close. "The complaint didn't mention last weekend," he said. "Finding you in my hotel room."

"Thank god."

"Must've realised she can't use it without admitting to breaking and entering. She'll be worried we'll have her arrested for it. Means all she can do is make vague claims." Greg leant in, brushing his mouth over Mycroft's. "Means we're winning this," he whispered. "Early days, but... we're winning."

Mycroft's heart heaved. "I'm not sure I can dare to believe that. I don't think I'll believe it until it's over. And heaven only knows when that will be."

"When she's in a cell," Greg said. He kissed Mycroft softly. "Maybe sooner. If she violates the injunction, even without a prison sentence, the divorce'll speed up. That's unreasonable behaviour, no argument and no question. Cut those ties. Then... I don't know. Think about some bigger steps."

It would be a blessed day, Mycroft thought. "Did you speak to your solicitor?" 

"Yeah. Warned him she might produce some cock-and-bull story about me sleeping with our sex therapist. Told him I'll just settle on finances. I won't fight her for the money anymore. It's... it's a massive hit for me to take, but..."

The words left Mycroft's mouth before he could think. "You'll be alright." He cradled Greg's face in his hands, settling a kiss against his lips. "I have money. You'll be perfectly fine."

Greg's expression tightened. "Myc—"

"Let's not talk about it now. Put it from your mind."

"Myc, it's a  _ lot _ of debt."

"And I won't let it tie you to her." Mycroft raked his fingers up into Greg's hair, stroking against his scalp. "You can't imagine how much I'd pay, if it meant that abusive cockatrice would forget us and get on with her life. Money exists to be exchanged for necessities. I'm not willing to sit on my savings when they could be used to cut you loose."

Greg inhaled, stroking his thumb across Mycroft's cheek. "I don't know what I'd do without you," he murmured, lowering his gaze. "I don't know how I'd cope. You're... I don't mean just..."

Mycroft wrapped his arms with care around Greg's waist, holding him close. 

"I know you don't," he murmured, stroking Greg's back through his shirt. "I know what you mean. And I'm glad you spoke to your solicitor. I'm glad the injunction is in progress. One day, we'll look back and marvel that we were forced to go through this."

Shivering, Greg nuzzled for his lips. "I missed you," he said again, kissing Mycroft. Mycroft's heart squeezed up into his throat. "I don't understand how I've coped this week."

"No. Nor do I."

"You were amazing in there. Just now. All in your armour."

Mycroft hesitated. "My armour?"

"Just... y'know. Ready for battle. Cool and in control."

Mycroft didn't know whether to laugh or not. He touched Greg's cheek with his fingertips. "May I come to Scotland Yard on Monday? Watch you interview some delinquents?"

Greg's mouth turned up at the edges. "If you want," he said. He looked down at Mycroft's lips, stroking them. "Is it this afternoon you're seeing—?"

Mycroft winced a little.  _ Speaking of delinquents. _

"It is," he said. "Against my better judgement."

"He'll help, love. He can do things we can't." Greg replaced the stroke of his thumb with his own lips, kissing Mycroft slowly. "Things that mean we can see each other," he added, his voice soft. "That's worth it, isn't it?"

Huffing, Mycroft relented. Greg knew how to incentivise him, if nothing else. 

"I'll let you know what happens," he said. He brushed his fingers through Greg's hair, neatening it gently. They couldn't linger in here forever. "It's another possible weapon put to our defence. I won't let old grudges get in the way."

"Thanks," Greg murmured. "I know it's not easy for you, but... well, desperate times."

Mycroft exhaled. "Desperate indeed."

They looked into each other's eyes for a moment, palest grey on darkest brown.

"How long will it be until we next get to hold each other?" Mycroft asked.

Greg visibly braced to give an uncomfortable truth. "Injunction'll take another week," he said. "Maybe two. Then... well, it won't exactly be safe. But if she tracks down my new place and turns up, she can at least be arrested for it. That'll be something." 

Mycroft's pulse gave an unsettling lurch.  _ Another two weeks,  _ he thought.  _ At the least. _

"I'd rather like to go away together," he said, searching Greg's eyes. "A weekend somewhere, I mean. I don't mind where we go."

Greg nudged their noses together, fond and gentle. "Shall we plan something, love?"

_ Oh, god.  _ "Please."

"Are you struggling, waiting to see each other?"

Mycroft hesitated. He should be strong, insist that he was perfectly fine—but in all truth, he suffered when they were apart. Without Greg to ground him, he tumbled very quickly into doubt and helpless worry. He'd been through far too much wine this week already. This afternoon's scheduled meeting would also certainly pile additional stress upon his shoulders. Greg's company felt more and more like a necessity, not a luxury; a vital source of comfort that Mycroft was sorely missing.

Tentatively, he touched his lips to Greg's.

"I appreciate the necessity," he said. It hurt: close, but held apart. "Having plans to go away would help."

Gently Greg studied his face, searching for the fullness of the truth behind the official statement. Mycroft's throat muscles squeezed. He couldn't hide himself from those eyes. He'd never been able to, not with any success. It was why they'd ended up in this situation.

Mycroft filled his lungs before Greg could speak, shivering.

"Please don't suggest something reckless to me," he said, shutting his eyes. "I'm extremely weak. I'll agree and we'll endanger our fragile gains for the sake of a few days."

"Alright." Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft. "C'mere," he murmured, holding him close and tight. Mycroft hid away in his embrace. "Shhh. I won't suggest anything. We'll do something safely as soon as we can. Ring me when you're home this evening, okay? We'll skype. Or we'll go on speaker phone, and you can carry me around the whole night. Just don't sit alone in your flat and start thinking."

_ God.  _ Mycroft swallowed, tightening his arms around Greg's chest. "I miss you." 

"I'm right here, love. Right this second."

_ You know what I mean.  _ "I... I'll have to throw you out soon. Any longer will seem suspicious. And I have a client due."

Greg squeezed him gently. "Is it weird that almost makes me jealous? Kinda miss being in here."

Mycroft's stomach tugged. He wasn't sure he could permit himself too much nostalgia for the time they'd spent in therapy together. Diane's voice rang far too clearly in the back of his mind:  _ predatory behaviour, selfish gain.  _ It took him a moment to source some suitable humour as a distraction.

"Would you like to borrow an erotic novel?" he asked in a mumble.

He felt Greg smile against his cheek. "Christ."

"Seems a lifetime ago, doesn't it?"

Greg huffed. "Honestly, darlin', last week seems a lifetime ago."

Mycroft couldn't argue with that. He kissed the side of Greg's head, closing his eyes.

"I'll walk you to the front desk," he said, as he took a breath. "I'll make a show of shaking your hand. If you could bring yourself to look weary and litigious, that would be marvellous."

As they let each other go, Greg cupped Mycroft's face.

"Have a good day," he said, leaning close for one last kiss. 

Their lips pressed. Mycroft forced his hands to ball at his sides, not to reach out and cling. Greg kissed him all the same, deep and slow, their final kiss for an unspecified stretch of time.

"If you can't have a good day," Greg said, "just have a day. You can tell me all about it tonight. And I hope everything goes alright this afternoon."

_ Heaven help me. _ "Thank you," Mycroft managed, doing his best to smile. It didn't seem to fit properly on his mouth. "I'll try."

"Just see what he says. We can only ask. And if he says yes, then... well, our lives might become a bit easier."

There came a pause. The air pulled between them, too tight and too quiet, thick with all the things they couldn't change.

"Damn. Leaving you is..." Greg swallowed, glancing down at Mycroft's mouth. "Especially from here. Walking out of this office always crippled me. Used to feel like ripping a chunk off my soul every Wednesday. Still does."

Quiet fortitude flooded through Mycroft's veins.

"Then let's do it together," he said, reaching for the lock. "All things are easier that way."

*

They parted formally and cleanly by the desk: a professional grip of hands, a last flash of eye contact; a murmured, "Thanks for your time, Dr Holmes," and he was gone. Every cell in Mycroft's body ached, wanting to watch him leave, but it was not a possibility. This separation was a bed of Mycroft's own making. He had no option but to lie in it.

He reached for Anthea's appointment book to occupy his hands and his eyes, flipping through it as he tried not to picture Greg walking away down the stairs.

"Are you alright?" Anthea asked in undertones, lifting him out of his thoughts.

"Perfectly alright," Mycroft said. "Should I not be?"

Anthea paused. "I'm sorry you're..."

The front door gave a distant thump, echoing up through the floor.

Mycroft took a breath. "We all face allegations at some point in our career," he said, skimming his fingertip down this afternoon's column in the diary. In truth, he didn't need to check. He knew his schedule by heart. "Therapy is an emotionally volatile profession. Only a matter of time before we run into the wrong client and an obsessive connection forms. But these things tend to resolve fairly quickly."

Anthea gave a dim nod. "It's... not true, is it?" she asked, her gaze trained on the empty email inbox.

Mycroft tutted. "Of course it isn't," he said, closing her diary. "If it were, my dear, I'd have fled to some delightfully sunny island with him by now."

Anthea's mouth upturned at one corner. "Oh?"

"Mm. At this very moment I'd be lying on a beach lounger, working my way through a sugar-rimmed limoncello mojito as he meticulously reapplies my sunscreen for me. Alas, I remain here in London, miserably single and waist deep in other people's sex lives.  _ Water, water everywhere, _ as the saying goes. By the way, I'll be leaving a little early today."

"That's not like you. Anything fun?"

"Not in the least. Rather the opposite, in fact."

"Ahh. Dentist, is it?"

"Far worse," Mycroft said. "Family."


	2. Desperate Measures

Mycroft had two brothers. They shared a single corporeal form and had the same name, which made things rather difficult at times. One Sherlock, though smug and prone to melancholy, was generally amenable to reason. On occasion he even proved a worthy ally in the perpetual war against their mother.

The other Sherlock was a childish little shit.

Having wasted every one of his opportunities in life, he now spent his days experimenting with narcotics and tormenting lesser mortals for fun. He believed every person's business was his business, provoked arguments when bored, and knew how to wind Mycroft into a cataclysmic fury while expending a bare minimum of effort.

Sadly, there was no way to predict which Sherlock might be using the body at any given time.

Sometimes one would accept an invitation, then send the other along in his place. The more reasonable of the two occasionally vanished for months on end. Ransom notes from his captor inevitably followed, promising his safe return in exchange for money.

Mycroft always paid. He didn't believe for one moment that Sherlock ever truly intended to change. He just couldn't bear the thought of that phonecall.

_ Mama, Sherlock is dead. He overdosed on cocaine. Cocaine is a sort of white powder which morons have instead of hobbies. _

Though Sherlock would perhaps be more predictable in his movements when dead, he wouldn't be any less trouble. Overall, Mycroft was loath to introduce him to a situation which already contained both an illicit sexual affair and Helen Lestrade.

But if there would ever be a time in this horrendous game to play a wildcard, the time was now.

Sherlock had suggested Baker Street as today's venue. Mycroft had pushed things politely in the direction of a modestly-priced restaurant. He hoped that a public setting would help to keep things civil in both directions. His offer to pay for dinner had been accepted, and so it was that he found himself waiting in a French establishment in Covent Garden at six o'clock, tapping his fingers quietly against the side of his water glass. He'd considered wine, then realised it might be injudicious until he knew whether Jekyll or Hyde would be joining him for dinner.

The answer strolled in at nearly quarter past six, gave no explanation for the delay, and took his menu from the waitress as absent-mindedly as he'd take a flyer from a fundraiser on the street.

Mycroft ordered a large glass of the Château Grimard Bordeaux, the onion soup and a salade de chèvre chaud, and prepared himself for a difficult evening.

"How are you?" he began, offering what he hoped was a pleasant and airy smile.

His brother took the question as guardedly as if Mycroft had asked for the PIN code to his bank account.

"Fine," Sherlock said. He quietly scanned Mycroft's face and clothing. "You've gained three pounds since Christmas. Did you realise?"

Mycroft doggedly maintained his smile.

"Have I?" he said. "Very observant of you. You look well, at least."

Sherlock's right eyebrow twitched. He said nothing, waiting for more.

Silently Mycroft willed the waiter to fetch his wine faster.

"Have you spoken to our mother recently?" he asked, to fill the quiet.

"No," Sherlock said. His forehead creased. "Is that what this is about? I've grown slack in paying my fortnightly telephonic tribute, am I? Or has there been some birthday or other I've forgotten?"

"No, no," Mycroft said. "I merely wondered. She asks about you."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What does she ask?"

_ Lord, must you be so defensive?  _ With effort, Mycroft kept the thought off his face.

"How you are," he said. "That's all. General wellbeing. I usually tell her that you're fine, and that you send your love."

"Presumptuous of you," Sherlock noted.

"That you're fine?" Mycroft checked, biting his tongue. "Or that you send your regards to the mother who birthed us?"

Sherlock leant back in his chair.

"You've summoned me here to snipe at me, then," he said. "The professional muck-raking must be boring at the moment, if you've found some time to fuss and flap. And rather than look to your own sins, you've decided to come and paddle around in mine. How typical of you."

Mycroft drew a long and steadying breath.

"No," he said, telling himself this could be going worse. "I've no interest in your sins, dear brother, though I'm sure they're numerous. And for what it's worth, we are  _ both  _ professional muck-rakers. The only difference between us is that I try to clean it up once I've finished raking."

Sherlock huffed, the corner of his mouth curling upwards.

"It's lovely that you think so," he said. "Really, Mycroft. It warms my cold heart that you see yourself as some sort of gentle shepherd, guiding the lost little lambs through the wilderness."

Mycroft bit back several choice remarks, opting instead to maintain his fixed smile.

"Someone has to," he supposed. "You're welcome to sneer at my impulse to help others, if you wish. It's your prerogative as a younger sibling to disdain the things I admire. But dare I ask why else you think I do it?"

Sherlock tutted.

"You're just like me," he murmured. "You're curious as to how far the human soul can stretch. If there's any limit to its elasticity. The more you learn of the world, the more you understand that human beings are quite simply self-centred and awful... and the more grateful you are not to be one."

"Mm," Mycroft hummed. "You're aware that I mostly deal with erectile dysfunction, aren't you?"

Sherlock's expression didn't move. "Why exactly are we here?"

"Can we not have even one—..." Mycroft inhaled, settling himself.  _ This must go well. His safety and his happiness depend on it.  _ "For heaven's sake. There's no reason for us to bicker."

"Is there a reason for us to talk?"

"Do we  _ need _ a reason to talk?"

"Apparently we need one to bicker," Sherlock said, shrugging, "and I very much doubt you've offered me a free meal purely out of the kindness of your heart. Either I'm here so you can attempt to correct my behaviour in some way, or I'm here so you can inform me of something. Are you returning to Bonny Wee Scotland at last? I do hope so."

_ If only. _

"Not presently," Mycroft said with a tight smile. "And I'm not here to upbraid you. Quite the opposite, in fact."

Drinks arrived. As the waiter laid them out, the two brothers sat in stony silence and surveyed separate parts of the restaurant, neither willing to look the other in the eye.

At last, the waiter moved away and Mycroft reached with relief for his wine.

"What do you mean, quite the opposite?" Sherlock inquired, watching as Mycroft drank. He ignored his own glass of sparkling water. "Don't say that you're here to lavish praise upon me."

Mycroft put his glass down.

"If you succeed," he said, "I will praise you until there is no more breath in my lungs with which to speak. I will not question your life choices ever again. And I will acknowledge to any living soul you care to name that I not only asked for your help, but  _ begged _ you for it."

Sherlock's eyebrow popped upwards, startled.

"My help?" he said. He searched Mycroft's face. "You haven't asked me for help in all our lives. I'm surprised you haven't coughed up a kidney just saying that word to me."

"Take it as a mark of the situation," Mycroft said.

Sherlock's face tightened with some sudden thought. 

"This isn't something to do with our mother, is it?" he asked. "Some joint act of tribute?"

"God forbid," Mycroft said. "The last person I wish to become involved. The second to last person is you."

"So... you do not  _ want _ my help, but you—"

"Need it." Mycroft held Sherlock's gaze, unmoving. "Specifically I need some of your professional skills."

A slight flash lightened his brother's eyes. 

"You've always shown contempt for my profession," Sherlock said.  _ "Great  _ contempt."

"You've shown the same for mine," Mycroft pointed out. "Nevertheless I believe we can now be useful to each other. I'm prepared to pay, Sherlock. It might even be donkey work to you."

Sherlock huffed. "And what makes you think I'll be interested in donkey work?"

"I'm prepared to pay  _ generously." _

"How generously?"

_ God help me.  _ "At this stage in the proceedings," Mycroft said, "you can name your price. I'm facing a considerable problem. I will give what I must to make it go away."

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted ever higher.

"You're serious about this," he remarked, fascinating. "This isn't some strange set-up."

Mycroft swallowed another mouthful of wine. "Entirely serious."

"What exactly are you hoping to task me with?" Sherlock asked.

_ Where to begin?  _ Mycroft thought. He took a deep breath.

"I want someone put under observation," he said. "I want them tailed. Watched. That's in the first instance. If possible, I want to be given advance warning of their movements and their plans. Ideally I want them behind bars where they belong." 

For a moment, Sherlock looked as if he almost didn't believe it.

"You almost sound as if you've made yourself an enemy," he said.

Mycroft's stomach tightened. "I fear I have."

Sherlock huffed, half-amused. 

"Miracles never cease," he said. "I didn't think you were nearly interesting enough for anyone to hate." 

"Mm. Nor did I."

"What, pray tell, did you do to warrant such an honour?"

Mycroft steadied himself. 

"This is a very serious matter," he said. "The authorities are involved. I want to bolster their chances."

"Dear god," Sherlock murmured, fascinated. "You're concerned enough to trust the authorities? This person must pose you quite a threat."

Mycroft couldn't bring himself to deny it.

"Almost limitless threat," he said. "Short of actually killing me, there's little off the table. One of the most self-devoted narcissists and accomplished liars that I've ever encountered. Lacking in some forms of intelligence, but she more than makes up for it in cunning and determination."

Sherlock's eyes danced. "She?"

"If you decide from her gender that you can dismiss her," Mycroft said, "she will eat you alive."

"Oh, indeed? She sounds rather fun."

"She isn't. She's a very damaged and very dangerous person."

"And how does she feel about you?" Sherlock asked.

"She's hell bent on ruining my life," Mycroft said. "I'm on the brink of losing everything."

"Why?"

"I'm in possession of something she believes is rightly hers."

Sherlock scanned Mycroft's face, ever more intrigued. "Disputed property?"

"Of sorts."

"What manner of property?"

Mycroft bit the side of his tongue. "There's no easy way for me to put this."

Huffing, Sherlock leant back in his chair. 

"I can't consider your job offer," he said, "if I don't have the full facts. What exactly have you taken from this woman?"

"I haven't taken anything," Mycroft said. With a breath, he added, "He came willingly."

Sherlock's mouth opened.

"And before you ask the obvious questions," Mycroft went on, "I'll answer them for you. Yes, they were clients of mine. No, nothing happened until he was a former client. And no, that does not matter. I am an unethical atrocity of a therapist and I could very easily lose my license for it. By all rights, I  _ should _ lose my license for it. I'll present the mitigating circumstances that she had zero interest in their marriage until he began to contemplate ending it, and that she subjected him to a catalogue of abuse including a faked pregnancy to force a reconciliation. I present these things knowing they're inadequate. I am now drowning in a mess entirely of my own making."

Mycroft filled his lungs.

"But he is a good man," he finished, weakly. "He's made his choices. By some miracle, one of those choices is me. His horrific wife has now stalked him since December and been physically violent on two occasions. I need her to be stopped."

Sherlock closed his mouth. He took a moment to reboot several vital apps in his brain, looking as shocked as if Mycroft had dashed the entire jug of water into his face.

"When did she discover—"

"The small hours of last Sunday," Mycroft said. "She broke into his hotel room and found me there."

Sherlock winced. "Please no more details."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"On Monday he applied for an injunction against her," he said. "On Wednesday she reported me to the manager of the clinic for gross misconduct. Today I was questioned about it and I lied."

"You are going to lose your license," Sherlock said, staring at him. "Retrain."

"If that happens," Mycroft said, his pulse skipping a beat, "it will be a great shame, because you will lose out on a considerable fee."

Sherlock's gaze flickered. "What evidence has she supplied to the clinic?"

"None."

"None?"

"She has no evidence," Mycroft said. "At the moment, it's a case of our word against hers. She's not intelligent enough to compete in that arena. But I need her to be deprived of the chance to gather evidence. If she gets hold of any, we are finished."

"Have you considered not fucking her husband any longer?" Sherlock asked, wide-eyed. "The best way to stop her collecting evidence is to stop  _ producing _ it, Mycroft."

Mycroft's shoulders stiffened. "That is not an option."

"Then you are an idiot," Sherlock said.

"I am," Mycroft agreed. "How much do I need to pay you?"

Sherlock searched his eyes.

"What if I wanted four figures?" he asked. "With no questions as to how I will spend it."

_ You tiresome little shit.  _ "It would be agreed."

"I haven't mentioned any digits."

"I wouldn't care what they are," Mycroft said, fiercely. "I care that you  _ help us, _ Sherlock. I care that you  _ stop her. _ Do you understand quite how desperate I am?"

Sherlock paused.

"I believe I'm starting to," he said. "What specifically would you want me to do?"

"I want you to monitor her," Mycroft said, "watch her, and tell me what she's doing. I want you to keep us abreast of what she knows and what she doesn't know. And I want you to assist in building up a bank of evidence, one which shows she has an unhealthy fixation upon me and wishes me harm."

"She's fairly justified in wishing you harm," Sherlock pointed out. "You helped yourself to her husband."

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek. "Not officially."

"Dare I ask the official line? Tripped and fell on him, did you?"

"No. Far simpler. He and I are not engaged in affair. His wife's ludicrous claims are just that—ludicrous. She's either unfortunately delusional or maliciously seeking to humiliate her husband, punish the clinic. Her time in therapy prompted the beginning of the end of her marriage. She's trying to lay blame. Either way, there is nothing untoward taking place."

"And which is it?" Sherlock asked, half-amused.

"Mm?"

"Which diagnosis are you assigning to this woman, Mycroft? Is she delusional or malicious?"

"That depends on her actions," Mycroft said. Their starters were coming towards them across the restaurant, borne aloft by their waiter. "She'll be given whichever shoe fits."

Sherlock huffed, shaking his head. He lapsed into silence as the waiter arrived at their table, put down their plates and wished them an enjoyable meal.

Watching him walk away, Sherlock said,

"I almost want to applaud your dazzlingly shameless rejection of your ethics, dear brother. It's really rather refreshing."

_ For god's sake. _

"This isn't about ethics," Mycroft said coldly, picking up his soup spoon.

Sherlock's eyes glinted. "You've broken up a marriage and declared that to the victor go the spoils. Now you want your career protected and the woman silenced. I'm struggling to imagine a better example of gross misconduct."

"Sherlock, that is  _ not  _ the case."

"No? What altruistic interpretation of this situation am I missing?"

"The one where a good man made the decision to leave a toxic marriage," Mycroft said hotly, "after years of emotional abuse."

"Did he perceive of this abuse before or after you pointed it out to him?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft said nothing, his jaw locking tight. 

Sherlock's smile spread from ear to ear.

"To think I used to suspect you might be adopted," he remarked, watching Mycroft blow across his soup. "I've never seen the resemblance between us so clearly in all my life. I'm...  _ proud, _ dear brother. Really I am."

Mycroft inhaled very slowly.

He put his spoon down.

"Sherlock," he warned, in the very lowest tones his voice could reach. "This situation is not what you think. If you knew the woman, you'd understand."

"Of course I would," Sherlock said. "I'm sure she's a terribly wicked lady who deserves everything she gets. How dare she protest your requisition of her husband."

"Sherlock—"

"And who is this glittering modern Adonis, might I ask? A man so secure in his own masculinity that he'll treat sex therapy like musical chairs."

_ "Sherlock—" _

"Whoever he is, he must be  _ quite _ a prize, dear brother. One worth hurling your career and all your dignity into the sea. Will Mama like him? You might not want to mention to her that you picked him up cheap and second-hand."

Mycroft swept the napkin from his lap. He threw it across the table, pushed back his chair and stood up.

"What do I pay you to forget about this?" he asked, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

"Why?" he said. "Are you withdrawing the offer? How sad. Just as I started to find it interesting."

"I want you to wipe this from your mind," Mycroft said, opening his wallet and rifling through it for money. "Forget it. Every word of it. Not mention it, ever, to  _ anyone. _ What will that cost me?"

"And you'll pervert the course of justice yourself, will you?" Sherlock said. "I suppose you've had enough practice at perversion."

"Ample," Mycroft snapped. He threw down enough money to cover their meal. "And it is  _ not _ justice. I should have known you'd read this situation in entirely the wrong way. Your ability to bring out the absolute worst in me is as honed as ever."

"It's now  _ my  _ fault you've stolen a client's husband?" Sherlock said, his eyes glittering. "How convenient for you. Always the way though, isn't it? Everyone's fault but yours."

Mycroft leant low across the table, his face burning. 

"Forget it," he breathed.  _ "All _ of it. In the next few days, if you mysteriously find some need for a sum of money, contact me." 

He straightened up from the table, dragging his coat from the back of the chair. 

"I will deal with Helen Lestrade," he said. "If she ruins me, you will be supporting Mama in her dotage, so I suggest that you start saving now. She has expensive tastes and plenty of them."

As he turned away from the table, Sherlock's voice called him back.

"Lestrade?"

Mycroft cast a cold look over one shoulder, saying nothing.

Something had changed in his brother's expression. The humour had gone, replaced by a quiet sort of caution.

"This woman attempting to ruin you," Sherlock said. "She... you said Helen  _ Lestrade?" _

Mycroft drew a weary breath.

"Do not mention this to any of his colleagues at Scotland Yard," he said. "He's dealing with quite enough as it is."

_ And more by the day. _

_ Thanks to me. _

Sherlock shifted in his chair.

"They don't speak to me," he said. "Lestrade is the only officer at Scotland Yard who'll so much as give me the time, let alone any sort of..." 

He hesitated, searching Mycroft's face.

"He's a decent man," he said. "He's always been... I didn't realise you're aware that I know him."

"He thinks highly of you," Mycroft said.  _ "Too _ highly. Suggested that we seek your help on this matter. Why he thought you'd understand is beyond me."

Sherlock's gaze flickered. "Lestrade tends to assume there's good in people."

"Lucky for us both," Mycroft said, his smile flat and cold. "And now he is my victim. How did you put it?  _ To the victor, the spoils?  _ Certainly fitting, given how much of his life I've already spoiled. Never mind, eh? Better let justice be done."

Sherlock said nothing for another moment, thinking something which brought him discomfort. 

"A faked pregnancy?" he said.

Mycroft's heart clenched.

"Barely the start of it," he muttered. "You can't imagine the things she's said to him. Done to him. By the time he reached me, he doubted he had even a scrap of worth to anyone. An abusive husband is instantly recognised as a villain. An abusive wife is considered an amusing improbability."

He drew a breath, straightening to his proper height.

"And same sex bonds are by their very nature shameful," he said. "You know, Sherlock, for all your supposedly unique and remarkable brain, you've reacted precisely how the rest of the world is going to. Amusement and scorn. Disgust, that I've seduced some gullible fool. Condemnation that I've robbed some poor woman of her perfect happiness. Thank you for this useful reminder of how completely and utterly screwed we are. God knows I needed one."

He turned away once more.

Once more, Sherlock called him back.

"Mycroft," he said. "Your soup is getting cold. Perhaps you should sit down."

Mycroft stiffened on the spot. He turned back towards the table, his every muscle wound tight.

"Perhaps," he said, "you should allow me to leave, lest you end up wearing the bloody soup."

"I would like to hear more details," Sherlock said. He held Mycroft's gaze. "Please sit down."

"Why?" Mycroft snapped. "So you can continue to berate me for my life choices? I can do that myself at home."

His brother pulled in a breath.

"My understanding was incomplete," he said. "Lestrade is... he's been kind and helpful to me when others haven't. I owe him something of a debt."

Mycroft frowned. 

"What sort of debt?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't answer, busy searching Mycroft's face. "You said she's been physically violent towards him?"

Mycroft nodded, numb. 

"Twice," he said. "And twice I was powerless to protect him."

Sherlock said nothing, listening without a word.

Mycroft's chest gave a strange and uneasy squeeze.

"Which is why I'm prepared to put our past aside," he said, "and seek your help. I'm aware that my actions are unethical. I'm aware they're easily painted as immoral. But all he wants is to escape an abuser, and he... has let me comfort him through that. My comfort won't keep him safe, though. All I can do is find people to help us."

Something settled behind his brother's expression, something oddly moved. 

"Us," Sherlock remarked. 

Mycroft hesitated, saying nothing.

"You arrived so concerned for yourself," Sherlock went on. "Your reputation, your career. But... the more you talk, the more I hear it.  _ Us. We." _

Mycroft's throat tightened.

"Are you going to sneer at me for it?" he asked, removing his coat. He dropped it vaguely over the back of his chair. "Maintaining some tragic hope of  _ us,  _ even in such squalid circumstances?"

Sherlock ignored the bait, watching him sit down. 

"Before I agree to aid you," he said, "I will need to ask you questions. You will take them as impertinent but they're not. I need to see the wholeness of the thing before I can agree to be involved in it."

Mycroft drew an unsteady breath, bracing himself. "Go on."

"Have you had inappropriate relations with any patient before?" Sherlock asked.

Bile welled in the back of Mycroft's throat.  _ Inappropriate relations.  _

"No," he snarled.

"Have you ever been accused of it?"

_ "No." _

"There's no previous mark on your record of any kind which could be cited as a tendency towards predatory behaviour?"

Mycroft's hands balled into fists, close to vomiting.

"I am not  _ predatory," _ he breathed, trying to keep his voice beneath the hearing of other diners. "I am a fool, Sherlock, but I am not a  _ monster. _ And I wish to god that I had met him any other way."

Sherlock processed this, his expression clean. Only a faint flicker in his eyes betrayed any hint of reaction. He said nothing, reaching quietly for his water glass.

Mycroft let out a breath.

"No, there is no precedent for unethical conduct," he said, watching Sherlock drink. "Greg is... entirely unique to me. In every possible way. For what it's worth, nothing happened between us until three months after the therapy sessions terminated and he separated from his wife."

"What caused the separation?" Sherlock asked, putting aside his glass. "The abuse?"

"That paved the way. In the end, he discovered her infidelity."

_ "Her _ infidelity?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Her  _ latest _ infidelity."

Sherlock nodded, quietly pleased by this. 

"Not strictly to do with you then," he murmured. Mycroft kept his face clean. "I'd have recommended a longer gap, perhaps. Something closer to three years than three months."

Mycroft breathed back the need to sigh. 

"Noted," he muttered.

The waiter drifted over to their table, looking nervous.

"Is everything alright with your food, sirs?" he asked, glancing between the untouched salad and the untouched soup. "Can I bring either of you something else?"

"It's perfectly fine, thank you," Mycroft said, attempting a smile. "We're taking our time with it."

Baffled, but clearly not wishing to argue, the waiter eased away again.

As Mycroft ate a few spoonfuls of his soup, Sherlock selected another rocket leaf.

"Why didn't you?" he asked.

Mycroft looked up fom his soup. "Mm?"

"Wait for longer, I mean. You're usually rather restrained when it comes to your..." Sherlock waved a hand. "Significant others."

Mycroft shifted with discomfort. "I'm not certain there's ever been a  _ significant other." _

"Oh, Mycroft."

"What?"

"There's been a veritable parade of horrendous boyfriends."

"For heaven's sake. Hardly a  _ parade. _ And a boyfriend is different to a—"

"Who was that idiot who turned up unexpected one Christmas Day?"

Mycroft shut his eyes. "Please let's not discuss Frank. He was handling the separation less well than I'd thought."

"Hadn't he written you a poem?"

"Sherlock, we're dealing with the  _ current _ hideous mess of my life. Not the  _ previous _ hideous messes."

"Lestrade wrote you a better poem, I take it?"

"He didn't need to," Mycroft muttered, keeping his gaze in his soup. He blew across a spoonful to buy himself time, even though it was now distinctly tepid. "You've met the man."

Sherlock huffed. "I somehow managed not to sleep with him."

Mycroft cast him a look of annoyance. "I understood you have no interest in such things."

"True," Sherlock agreed, flat-toned and emotionless. "Romantic relationships bewilder me. Everlasting devotion to a single person is an unhealthy and nonsensical fantasy. It is the single most stupid pursuit anyone can undertake."

_ Second only to cocaine.  _ Mycroft kept the thought off his face.

"I believed you felt somewhat the same," Sherlock said, a tiny frown appearing between his eyebrows. "Your predilection for sex has always been apparent. But in terms of lasting bonds..."

Mycroft gave him a pained glance over his soup. 

"It is in fact rather normal to enjoy physical contact with others," he said. "And to forge lasting bonds."

"Is it? I find the whole idea dull and odd."

"Recall, dear brother, that you are not normal."

"Thank goodness," Sherlock said blithely. "But you've always seemed just as averse to lasting bonds as I am. Why has that now changed? Why are you choosing to risk so much?"

Mycroft put his soup spoon down, reaching for his napkin.

"Greg is... dear to me," he said. "What we have is... he's... for goodness's sake, Sherlock. I'm not going to spill my soul to you in a restaurant. He means enough to me that I'll beg you for help. Will that do?"

Sherlock huffed, chewing a piece of rocket. "I almost wonder if I hear bells."

"You hear an expensive divorce," Mycroft replied with a frown. "You hear loud splintering cracks as the ground beneath my career begins to shake. You hear the pleasant jingle of unspecified funds raining down into your bank account."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Do I hear some assurance that everything you've told me is true?"

Mycroft withheld a sigh. 

"Lavish assurance," he said flatly. "Test anything I've told you. Make inquiries. Follow the woman for a day or two. Watch her pluck small birds and squirrels from the trees and eat them whole, bones and all. You're welcome to contact Greg and speak to him too."

"I will have to," Sherlock said, "if I'm to gain a clear picture."

Mycroft was almost tired enough to shrug. "Do so. "Discreetly, please. You're the only person who now knows the full truth of this situation, excepting the two of us. I'd like it to stay that way."

His brother hummed. "Should I be touched?"

"No," Mycroft said, frowning. "You can perhaps be flattered that I'm not stupid enough to lie to you."

Sherlock chuckled, leaning back in his chair.

"Excellent," he said. "That's very much in your favour. Shall we discuss money? I'll then need some details from you, including current addresses for all those involved. I could find them out myself, of course, but you might as well save me the time."


	3. Shelter

Ananya seemed to think they were funny.

"You two," she said fondly, eyeing Greg as Paul took her coat. His hands seemed huge against her slender shoulders. "Aren't you meant to have pizza boxes and empty beer bottles everywhere? This looks suspiciously like domestic bliss."

Greg grinned, smoothing the iron along the sleeve of Paul's work shirt. 

"Earning my keep, aren't I, Paul?" he said. "Shirts ironed, baths run, coffee in the morning. Fresh lipstick and dinner on the table when he gets home."

Paul shot him a wry glance, hanging up Ananya's coat.

"Ignore him," he told her. _ "I'm _ making dinner. Can't fault the man's cuffs and collars though."

Greg winked. "I give nice foot rubs, too."

As Ananya laughed aloud, Paul placed a gentle kiss upon her cheek. 

"Drink?" he offered. "Red or white?"

"My favourite three words in the world," she sighed. "White, please."

Paul nodded. "Make yourself at home," he said, and slipped into the kitchen. 

As the TV babbled on in the background, Ananya idled over to an armchair near the ironing board. She settled herself down, tucking her hair behind one ear.

"How are you?" she asked the cosy quiet.

Greg smiled a little, laying out Paul's next shirt. The last time they'd been alone together, she'd been asking him all about his sad childhood. This would never feel completely unweird.

"I'm alright," he said. "Settling in okay. Nice of Paul to have me, to be honest. Wouldn't normally risk living with a colleague, but... well, he needs someone to pay half the rent. I need a place to hide."

"It seems to suit you both."

"Mhm. And the lifts to work are handy. Makes it harder for anyone to follow me back and forth." Greg picked up the iron. "We had a fun morning. Did you hear?"

"I heard," Ananya murmured, watching him with sympathy. "Diane came and spoke to me this afternoon."

_ Moving fast,  _ Greg noted. He hoped it was a good sign.  _ It'll be over quick at least.  _

_ Whatever 'it' is. _

"How did things go?" he asked.

Ananya drew a breath, trying to put it into words. 

"She's being thorough," she admitted. "I took her through the facts. I told her everything she needed to know... which is that Helen is unpredictable, extremely manipulative and alters the truth to fit her image of herself."

_ Damn,  _ Greg thought.  _ There she is. One sentence.  _

"Did your boss seem to listen?" he asked.

Ananya smiled weakly. "It's, ah... it's often hard to tell with Diane. She's very facts and figures."

Greg huffed. "You can say that again."

"Did she give you both a grilling? I'm sorry."

"Suppose it's her job." Greg shrugged, gliding the iron across the expanse of white cotton. "The only thing that seemed to really open her ears was when Mycroft mentioned a lawyer. He's... it was sort of amazing to witness, to be honest. He knew just what to say. Never felt so safe in all my life."

Ananya chuckled. "You should see him act."

"Act?" Greg said with a dubious smile, looking up. "Mycroft?"

"Mm," she said, amused. "We did student drama together at university."

Greg broke into a grin at once. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. R. C. Sheriff, J. B. Priestley. A few Shakespeares. He played a very good Antonio in our third year."

_ Bloody hell.  _

"Christ," Greg said. "I thought you were kidding."

Ananya leant back in her armchair with a smile, crossing one leg over the other. "Every opening night, he'd be a wreck. Worse, if he was a major character. Pacing, panicking. Telling me he didn't know his lines. He'd end up so nervous that he couldn't speak. Nothing would calm him down. We used to keep a bucket by the side of the stage."

Greg lifted the iron from Paul's shirt to listen, fascinated.

"Then the curtain would start to rise," Ananya said, smiling at the memory. "Mycroft would empty his stomach into the bucket, wipe his mouth, stride out onto stage, and blow them all away. He was brilliant. He never missed a line."

"God." It made such painful sense that Greg could almost see it. "That's..."

Ananya shrugged. "It's as if he panicked until it just wasn't an option any more. Then he just..."

She gestured, loosely.

"Did what he had to."

Greg wished he could put his finger on why it moved him. He supposed he knew and loved them both—the Mycroft who couldn't cope, the Mycroft who couldn't fail. A few months ago, he couldn't have imagined Dr Mycroft Holmes hunched over a bucket, throwing up his guts in fear of ruining a student production of Shakespeare. 

He could imagine it now.

Aware that he was flushing, Greg smiled and retrieved the iron.

"Sounds about right," he said. He tautened Paul's shirt across the board with a tug. "Can't speak for his Shakespeare, but... well, he did brilliantly today. Made it a whole lot easier for me."

"Good," Ananya murmured, her gaze soft. "I imagine you made it easier for him, too."

As Paul reappeared from the kitchen, carrying two glasses of wine with a tea towel draped over his shoulder, the conversation eased to its end.

"Had to swap my garlic bread over," he said. He handed Ananya her glass, kissing her forehead. "Shouldn't be long now."

"You're sweet to cook," she said, regarding him with sparkling eyes. "You really didn't have to."

"Of course I had to," Paul murmured. "Need to demonstrate my skills. Prove I'm worth your time."

Greg smiled to himself, gliding the iron slowly along a sleeve. Paul had been cooking since the minute they got in. He'd changed his shirt twice. It brought memories to the back of Greg's mind—cheese bread and caramel mousse, a spotless kitchen with a gifted spider plant by the sink, nervous grey eyes watching him take a first bite.

_ Christ, I miss you.  _

He hadn't realised until this morning just how much. This week had gone on for about six weeks. Next week would probably feel longer. It hadn't even begun, and Greg was more than ready for it to end.

_ We'll get away,  _ he thought dimly.  _ Soon as we can. Some random city. Anywhere that's got a hotel. _

He tilted the iron to release its steam, letting the noise cover his own outbreath. Paul and Ananya didn't notice. They were busy murmuring little things and grinning at each other, flirting over Ananya's wine glass. From the look in her eyes, Greg wouldn't be seeing much of Paul until fairly late tomorrow morning.

_ Let's hope these walls are thick. _

Trying not to contemplate it, Greg kept his eyes to himself and reached for another shirt from the basket. Half a sleeve in, his pocket began to vibrate.

He moved the iron safely to its stand, switched it off, and reached for his phone.

Its ringtone had caught their attention.

"Your girl?" Paul asked, bright-eyed.

"Told him to ring when he got home," Greg said, trying not to smile. "He must've finished with his brother."

Ananya took a sip of wine. "I hope it all went well."

"Yeah, me too. Hope they both survived at least..." Greg answered the call with an absent-minded flash of his thumb, holding it up to his ear. "Hey, darlin'. How'd things go with Sherlock?"

A startled pause gave way to entirely the wrong voice. 

"He gets  _ darling?  _ Dear lord, it's even worse than I thought."

_ Oh, Jesus. _

"Bugger," Greg said, stiffening. Paul and Ananya's heads looked around. "Erm. H-hi, Sherlock. Sorry. I thought you were your brother. I saw Holmes on my phone and just... you alright? How's things?"

"I wondered if I could speak with you," Sherlock said in his ear, coolly. "Now."

Greg glanced towards the clock on the TV screen.

"I'm meant to be hearing from your brother soon," he said. "Is, erm... is he with you?"

"We parted ways ten minutes ago," Sherlock said. "I'm lingering to observe if anyone took an interest in his taxi. I imagine he'll be home shortly. May I ask you a few questions before that time?"

Greg's pulse gave a slight wobble.

"Sure," he said, leaning down to switch the iron off at the wall and unplug it. "Yeah, that's... I don't mind... just give me a second to—"

He gestured to Paul and Ananya, who gave him a shared thumbs-up that the iron would be watched. Slipping into his room, Greg shut the door behind him with a soft clunk, then sat down on the end of the bed. The springs creaked; it was a new mattress, still stiff and getting used to his weight.

"Alright," he said. "M'on my own. What did you want to ask?"

Sherlock's voice lifted with interest. "Were you not previously?"

"My room mate," Greg explained. "He's got—"  _ My other ex-therapist.  _ "—a date round. Not sure what sort of stuff you're planning to ask, so... I mean, they know it all anyway, but..."

"You're sharing a flat?"

"Erm, yeah. Only moved in a couple days ago. Still living out of boxes."

"Where were you until then?"

"With my sister and her family." Greg hesitated, glancing down at his feet in their striped blue socks. "Only... well, I don't know how much Myc told you, but—"

_ "Myc?"  _ Sherlock said, startled. "Does he permit that curtailment?"

"He doesn't stop me," Greg said. "Why? Does he not usually let people call him—?"

Sherlock huffed. 

"Not in the least," he said. "But I interrupted you. Please go on."

Greg took a breath, trying to retrieve his line of thought.

"Well, Helen was hanging around outside my sister's quite a bit, so... I figured I should get out of there. I don't want to make their lives a misery. And Paul—my room mate—he's Scotland Yard. Specialises in stalking cases. He's been helping me out a lot. He's needed someone to share the rent for weeks, so... means I can travel to work and back with him everyday. There's less chance she'll... y'know, try anything."

"What has she already done?"

"Did your brother not tell you?"

"I'd like to hear it from you," Sherlock said neatly.

_ Checking the story,  _ Greg thought.  _ Verifying the witness's statement. _

He kept things plain and simple.

"Followed me," he said. "Hung around outside the house, even overnight a couple of times. Texts, voicemails. Threatening note under my windshield wipers. Slapped me, left scratches down my face."

"Documented? Photographed?"

"Yep. Last weekend, she... this isn't documented, but she broke into my hotel room. Your brother was sharing with me and she found him there. I heard her screaming, came running. She battered me and ran off."

Sherlock clucked his tongue. "A pity this wasn't documented."

"Couldn't use it," Greg said, rubbing the side of his phone. "Myc. He shouldn't have been there."

"Mm."

"We couldn't really twist the story to edit him out. It would've been obvious we were hiding something. Paul reckons the injunction'll pass all the same. We've got enough evidence even without last weekend."

"And how has Mycroft been during these... trials?" Sherlock asked cleanly.

Greg pulled at the corner of his lip.

"Kinda my rock," he mumbled. "He's been... s-sorry, mate. I know he's your brother. I don't want to gross you out. How mushy can you handle?"

"Give me the facts," Sherlock said, "as you see them."

Greg almost smiled. 

"Never had a better friend," he said. "Met him, and we just... I-I don't know. We stopped the therapy thing way back last year, but he's still there for me. I'm a bit terrified I'm going to fuck up his life, to be honest. Seems like this is my war, but all the casualties will be from his army. I really hate that."

"Did you say you're still living out of boxes?" Sherlock noted. "That your wife has been intimidating your sister's family?"

"Oh—well, yeah, I suppose there's..."

"And I imagine divorce can't be cheap."

"Still worth it," Greg said, prompting another huff. "Alright, maybe I've lost more than I realise. But I'm glad. Necessary losses. Your brother's loss would be unnecessary."

"Some might argue it's very necessary," Sherlock said idly. "Perhaps even the right thing to do."

"Lose his license, you mean?"

"Mm. Hand it in, rather."

Greg's heart contracted hard. "'Cause of me."

"Because he's crossed a line in how he relates to his patients," Sherlock expanded. "A boundary has been breached. He might have terminated  _ your  _ therapy, but is he fit to continue giving it to others? These questions need to be raised."

Greg hesitated, looking down at the worn grey carpet.

"He was a good therapist to me," he said. "He's got people who need him. And his track record's—"

"Now broken."

"Okay, but—"

"Lestrade," Sherlock said quietly, "I won't take up the fight to defend my brother's career."

Greg held his breath, his muscles tightening.

"I've never been at all convinced it suits him," Sherlock went on. "I'll admit I always thought it more likely he would one day berate a patient for their idiocy rather than take one to bed, but all the same. Mycroft's professional decisions and the consequences thereof fall to Mycroft."

After a moment's painful silence, Sherlock added,

"But I believe you've been wronged. I understand that this woman is deeply hypocritical. She has treated you poorly and intends you further harm. That, I cannot tolerate."

_ Christ. _

"Mate," Greg said weakly, letting out his breath. "Sherlock... that's..."

"It's obvious my brother is very attached to you," Sherlock said, sending Greg's pulse through the ceiling. "He discusses you with a vulnerability I've rarely seen in him. I also doubt he'd risk his various much-cherished comforts without an extremely powerful incentive."

_ Holy shit.  _ Greg didn't respond, his heart lodged firmly in his mouth.

"If you ask me to protect him," Sherlock said, "then I will. I'll safeguard him as your... eh, what dreadful term are we using?"

Greg squeezed the phone. "He's my partner, Sherlock. We're together."

He wasn't sure how he managed to hear Sherlock wince over a phone line.

"Partner," Sherlock confirmed with regret, as Greg smiled down at the carpet. "But I'll prioritise his safety over his questionable license to practice. Is that acceptable to you?"

Greg supposed they didn't have much choice.

"Sure," he said. "I'd kinda like him to have both, but..."

"Mm."

"And... listen, you know this isn't just about him taking me to bed, right?"

Sherlock sighed. "I feared as much. But thank you for confirming it."

Greg reached up to rub the side of his neck, still smiling. 

"I had to work hard to get him there," he said.  _ "I  _ pushed this, Sherlock. Your brother would've walked away for my sake. I was the one chasing."

After several seconds of silence, Greg began to wonder if they'd been cut off.

"Sherlock?" he said.

Sherlock spoke. "Why?"

"Why what, mate?"

"Why did you chase?"

For a moment, Greg struggled to put it into words.

"Don't think I'm scrabbling for answers," he said at last. "It's not that. I'm just... I know you don't get this attracted-to-other-people business. And it's hard to think of something other than I just absolutely need to be close to him."

Sherlock considered this.

"He is difficult to get along with," he said at last.

Greg couldn't keep the smile from his voice. "No, he's not."

"Within the last hour alone, he threatened to throw soup at me."

"Were you winding him up at the time?" Greg asked, grinning. "He's never thrown soup at me. Not even once."

"Mhm."

"Sometimes people are good at the partner thing even if they struggle at the brother thing. It's a different sort of connection. Ask my brothers and they'll tell you I'm a total waste of space."

"And Mycroft is... somehow good at  _ the partner thing?" _ Sherlock said. "You're happy with him? He's treating you well?"

Greg squeezed his phone, his chest oddly warm.

"He is," he said. "I promise."

"Mhm."

"I wish I could... I don't know," Greg sighed, "show you. Not just tell you."

Before Sherlock could respond, a discreet bleep sounded on the line.

"Oh—sorry, Sherlock—I think that might be your brother trying to get through now. D'you mind if I say bye?"

"Not at all. I also have things to do."

"Cool. Well... let me know if I can help with anything. I can't involve Scotland Yard much on this, not without getting into major hot water. But I'm around, anyway. Just give me a bell."

"Mm. In fact I'd like to proceed as if you're my client, rather than Mycroft. He's paying my fees, of course, but you're far easier to deal with. You're much less...  _ fussy." _

Greg tried not to smile. The bleeping continued in his ear.

"Bye, mate," he said. "Look after yourself."

"Mm," Sherlock droned—and hung up.

Greg sucked in a breath, clearing his head, then answered the incoming call.

"Sorry," he said at once. "M'here. Just talking to Sherlock. Have you gotten home safe?"

"Just," Mycroft sighed. There came a distant clatter of keys in a wooden bowl. In an instant Greg could picture him perfectly, strolling through the gorgeous lounge that Greg missed with all his heart. "Sherlock called you, did he? Verifying my outlandish claims?"

Greg smiled, reaching up to rub the side of his neck.

"All now verified," he said. "He didn't want to know anything private. Just basic details. Looks like he's on our side."

"He's on our payroll, at least. That will have to do." A weary flump suggested Mycroft had collapsed onto either a bed or a couch. "Dear Christ. My patients' problems now seem breezily straightforward."

"Any interesting ones today?"

"Not particularly. The usual premature ejaculation and body issues. One chronic masturbator. All reassuringly dull, except for you and my brother."

Greg bit down into his smile. 

"Which was the chronic masturbator?" he asked. "Me or Sherlock?"

Mycroft chuckled in the back of his throat, tired but pleased. 

"It depends," he said. "Has your weekly count increased much since last December?"

"Aheh. No. Dropped quite a bit, actually."

"Mm. Seems my brother was the tosser, then. He certainly put the effort in."

Tipping back onto his bed with a grin, Greg reached up and dragged a pillow down. 

"M'sorry you had a crap day," he said, settling it behind his head. "At least we got a few minutes together."

Fondness softened Mycroft's voice. 

"By far the best part," he said. "I only wish we'd had longer."

"Yeah... yeah, me too." Greg's heart performed a dizzy little flip. "Where are you right now?"

"Slumped upon my couch like a heavy sack." Mycroft seemed to yawn, shivering. "Hopefully I'll find the strength to get up at some point. Or perhaps I might just lay here until Monday."

_ I'm meant to be there,  _ Greg thought. The force of the conviction almost ached. All he wanted was to slip Mycroft's shoes off for him, rub his feet, run him a bath and make him some food. They weren't supposed to be apart right now.

"Where are you?" Mycroft asked, retrieving Greg gently from his thoughts.

"Just in my room," Greg said. He drew a breath. "I'll send you a photo at some point."

"How are you settling?"

"Alright. Definitely safe here, at least. The building's huge. Could have fifty families in it. Even if she saw me walk through the front door, she'd never find me."

Mycroft hummed. "How's your room?"

"Bit small, but... well, I've not got many things to take up space. Most of it's still in boxes. Couple of them back at Lisa's." 

Greg paused, trailing his gaze across the ceiling.

"Feels kinda temporary," he admitted.

"Mm?"

"If I'm honest, everything feels like that. It has for a while."

Mycroft's voice softened. "Hardly surprising."

"M'looking forward to things settling down." Greg bit the inside of his cheek, supposing there was no better person to confide in. "S'like I'm a refugee at the minute. Stumbling from one shelter to the next. Even a good shelter's just a shelter."

"I'm sorry," Mycroft murmured. "Really, I am."

Greg smiled a little. "Hardly your fault, love."

"All the same..." Mycroft drew a long breath, the sound as reassuring as a hug. "I can't imagine the toll this is taking on you."

Greg hadn't really stopped to notice. At the moment, it didn't seem to matter. The priority was just to keep going, and he'd count up the bodies when all was said and done. So long as his wasn't among them, it would be a win.

"Won't last forever," he said. He put some warmth into his voice, wanting to keep this positive. "My first DI used to say if you're swimming through shit, just keep swimming."

Mycroft huffed in his ear. "Very wise."

"I keep thinking... I don't know, maybe this is daft."

"Go on. I promise you I've heard worse."

Greg smiled.  _ The joy of dating a therapist. _

"I keep imagining there's a future me and a future you somewhere," he said. "Like ghosts, sort of. Looking back, telling us just to keep going."

"A very comforting notion," Mycroft remarked. "Hardly daft. I've had similar thoughts."

"Yeah?" Greg murmured.

"Mm. Several times." Mycroft was quiet for a moment, choosing what to share. "They've... been a little tarnished today."

Greg's heart tugged. "Why, love?"

Mycroft lapsed into another pause.

"It's... nonsense, really," he said. "Likely just tiredness. Ignore me."

Greg smiled, amused by the attempt. 

"Hey," he said, softly. "We're not doing that. Not in this relationship." He closed his eyes, wishing he could wrap his arms around Mycroft. This was all so much easier when they could touch. "Tell your boyfriend, please. He cares about you."

Mycroft let out a small breath, apparently overwhelmed.

"Today was uncomfortable," he confessed at last. "I... received a preview, I suppose, of how my actions will be viewed by the world at large. It's rather knocked me for six."

Greg smiled a little, listening. He didn't want to interrupt.  _ Let's have it all up into the light, where we can see it. _

After a moment, Mycroft went on.

"By the facts," he said, "I come across as something of a predator, Greg. I dislike the thought enormously. But I'll have to make my peace with it."

_ Jesus. _

"Myc," Greg murmured, his chest tightening. "Darlin'..."

"It's going to be easy for people to believe," Mycroft warned. "It's... horribly convincing, really."

"What d'you mean?"

"The obvious version of events."

"Yeah? What version is that?"

"That I coveted you," Mycroft said. "I smashed apart your marriage and took you for myself. I then went to considerable lengths to have your heartbroken wife painted as a lunatic."

Greg ran his tongue between his lips, taking a second to process that.

"Maybe a few people will think that," he admitted. "Might even be more than a few. It's a fun story. It'd probably make a really miserable and tedious novel."

He closed his eyes and imagined pressing his lips to Mycroft's forehead, holding him.

"But it doesn't mean it's true," he murmured. "And it doesn't matter if anyone wants to accuse you of that. I'll be standing right next to you, telling them to piss off because I'm fine."

Mycroft made a small noise of half amusement and half despair, all wrapped in exhaustion.

"Promise me you're happy, Greg," he whispered. "Promise me I haven't... that I'm treating you properly."

Greg's heart thumped, suddenly so lonely that every inch of his skin ached.  _ Christ, how will we even get through this? How will we ever be alright? _

He chose his words, wanting them to be remembered.

"I'm so happy with you," he said. "You're the only person in the world I want to see right now. No one's ever held me up like you do. And we're not painting her as anything, love. We're just showing her to the world as she is."

Mycroft's voice gentled. "I suppose I did give her the chance."

"The chance?"

"To put aside her lover. Focus her efforts on you, on repairing your marriage. She utterly ignored me." Mycroft hesitated. "She now acts as if you were the very core of her life, but..."

A quiet twinge passed through Greg's heart. Helen's favourite thing in the whole world was something she couldn't have. When they were married, she didn't really care if he was alive or dead. Now he'd walked away, she spent hours and hours sitting in a parked car on a street he might just be on. 

It took him a moment to speak, wishing he understood it himself.

"I gave her a chance long before you did," he mumbled. "After she cheated the first time. I took her back. That was her chance to care about me."

Mycroft made some gentle noise, listening with quiet sympathy.

Swallowing a little, Greg went on. 

"If people give you grief, it's because they're assuming things," he said. "Helen built this brick by brick, love. She's twisting the story now, saying it was us. But she had so many chances just to stop bloody building it."

"I suppose she even had Ananya's help," Mycroft murmured. "Weeks of it. She could have taken the opportunity, tried to reflect a little on her own actions."

Greg's stomach slowly turned. In all honesty, he hated the idea—that he'd have lived the rest of his life in quiet and fluffy ignorance, unaware that Helen had humiliated him yet again and gotten away with it.

He took a moment to put it into words, trying to make this sound calm.

"I'm glad I found out how things really were," he said. "I wouldn't change what's happened. She made her bed."

"Mmh."

"And... listen, things were signed and sealed long before you showed up. You know that, right? Helen's just using irrelevant stuff to her advantage. You didn't do anything to my marriage.  _ She _ did. She smashed it apart by cheating on me, twice. You just carried me out of the wreckage."

Mycroft said nothing for a moment, quiet on the line. Greg could almost hear him fighting to believe it.

"It's not that I want her harmed," Mycroft said at last. "I only want her gone. I never wanted to approach this as if it's war."

Greg gripped his phone.

"It's not war, darlin'," he said. "It's self-defence. If she left us alone, we'd just get on with our lives."

Mycroft hesitated again. "I still fear she has something of a right to hate me, Greg."

"If we believe that I'm her property," Greg said, frowning, "then sure. If we believe that I'm a grown man with every right to leave a crap situation for a better situation, suddenly she can kinda fuck off."

Mycroft drew a breath. "Nevertheless."

Greg almost let it go—then realised he didn't have to. It was okay to push this, to express his discomfort.

"Darlin', I... I think you're giving her too much grace," he said. "Way too much. I get that you're trained to empathise. You try to believe in damaged people, not dangerous ones."

Mycroft fell quiet, listening to him speak.

"But pretend I was the wife," Greg said, his heart beating hard, "not the husband. Take this like it was the other way around. I escaped a man who cheated on me, nearly bankrupted me, stalked me when I tried to leave him, then broke into my room at a hotel and attacked me. I start seeing someone new—someone kind, someone who'd do anything for me. Does my ex have a  _ right _ to hate my new guy?"

Mycroft let out a breath, audibly shaking. 

"Greg, I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Don't be," Greg said softly, relaxing his grip on his phone. "Just... damn it, I hate the world sometimes. You wouldn't be thinking like this if I could just hold you for more than five minutes. You wouldn't let this crap into your head."

Mycroft seemed to swallow.

"I miss you desperately," he breathed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologise. I mean it, love. None of this is your fault."

"Oh, god... I just keep wishing we were two months into the past. You were here almost every night. The world was perfect. I miss blissful ignorance with every fragment of my being."

Greg's heart tightened. 

"Don't wish us backwards, darlin'," he said. "Wish us forwards. Two months from now. Two years from now."

"Do you really believe this will be solved in two months?"

"I believe it'll be better. With an injunction, and Sherlock keeping tabs on her... we can see each other more, keep you grounded. You just need descaling, love. You know this happens every time."

Mycroft's voice broke. "Greg, I adore you. I adore your patience. Your positivity. I'm so sorry I struggle to share them."

"Myc—"

"You are a wonderful man. A light in my life."

"Myc, it's alright—"

"I'm sorry to fret. I'm just... god almighty, I'm so  _ tired. _ Sherlock has a remarkable ability to make me feel like an abominable human being. Diane would clearly hang me from the roof if she discovered even a fraction of the truth. Bloody Helen only needs to clutch her pearls and cry, and I'll be run out of my profession as a monster."

"Myc, you're a  _ good person," _ Greg said, curling around his phone. "You've had a crap day. That's all."

There came no sound over the line, just painful and frightened silence.

Greg drew a deep breath. "How would a therapist recommend we get through this? How do we best stay calm and hang on?"

Mycroft made a dazed noise.

"When I meet a therapist of any merit," he mumbled, "I shall ask them."

"I'm serious, darlin'," Greg said. "What would you tell us, if we'd come to you for help? If we were sitting there in front of your desk."

Mycroft thought about it for a while, locked back into his silence.

"I'd tell us to mentally rehearse our losses," he said, "to get a sense of whether they can be borne."

Greg turned his gaze across his featureless room, to the pile of cardboard boxes which contained the salvaged odds and ends of his life. 

"That bit's easy for me," he said. "There's... not a lot left to lose, thanks to Helen. Not that far to fall."

Mycroft didn't speak for some time. "And can it be borne?" he asked at last.

Greg didn't need to think.

"Easy," he said. He closed his eyes, imagining Mycroft here, gathered into his arms. "I can always make more money. Build myself another matchstick house. Won't find another you, though."

He heard Mycroft's throat muscles work.

"I love you," Mycroft whispered.

The centre of Greg's chest glowed a little, overcome. He'd never quite get used to that.

"What about you, beautiful?" he asked. "Can you... if it all goes to shit, I mean? Can you cope?"

Mycroft swallowed something back; there came a sound of something brushing against the phone.  _ Drying your eyes,  _ Greg thought. Pain jagged through his heart, seeing it as clearly as if they were in one room, just held apart by glass.  _ You're upset and you need me. And I'm not bloody there. _

"I love you," Mycroft said again, his voice tight. It was his answer, whole and in full.

_ Christ. Let's just move. Now. Let's go, let's get out of here. _

"I love you too," Greg murmured. He gently gripped his phone again, hoping Mycroft could feel it somehow, the hug he couldn't give in person. "I'll make it worth it, beautiful. I promise. All the crap, all the misery, however long it takes us to get there, I'll make it worth it. We'll look back and we'll be glad."

When Mycroft spoke, he sounded lost. 

"Greg," he whispered, and nothing more.

They held each other in silence for a moment, half a city apart. Greg could almost feel Mycroft breathing against his neck—feel his heartbeat slowing, settling, muscles unwinding. He didn't move, in case the illusion faded. He simply held Mycroft in his mind.

Fingers he couldn't really feel brushed through his hair.

_ "I loved him against reason," _ Mycroft murmured, and Greg's heart fell still.  _ "Against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be." _

A shiver seemed to pass through Greg's body, raising his every hair on end.

"What's that from?" he asked.

_ "Great Expectations," _ Mycroft replied softly. "Pronoun amended."

Greg was quiet for a moment more, letting it sink in. 

"My Auntie Mel had this fridge magnet," he said. "It was heart-shaped, blue with white letters. Hand painted. It said,  _ love is what you've been through with somebody." _

Mycroft's huff felt like a kiss to the forehead. 

"A fitting sentiment," he said.

There came another minute's gentle quiet, not uncomfortable.

"Do you have any weekend plans?" Mycroft asked.

"Probably go round to Lisa's at some point," Greg said dimly. "Pick up the last of my stuff, see the kids. Lisa says Midgie's been missing me." 

He bit the corner of his lip. 

"I, erm... I probably need to talk to Reece too," he said. "Just make sure he's... y'know, after last weekend."

"Ah," Mycroft murmured. "Yes, I was going to ask."

"M'sure he's fine," Greg added, flushing. "Lisa's probably talked to him about... but well, he might be wondering. Don't want him to think this is something it's not."

"It's worth talking to him," Mycroft said. As he spoke, the faintest glimmer of Dr Holmes returned to the surface; it made Greg smile. "He might want to ask some questions that only you can answer. And if nothing else, he'll be able to see that you're happy—that it's a private matter, but not shameful."

_ Private, but not shameful.  _ Greg almost wanted to button the words into a little pouch, then carry them with him wherever he went. They were perfect.

"What about you?" he asked. "What's your plans?"

Mycroft drew a sigh.

"Lie here until Monday," he said, "then stagger my way clumsily towards Friday. Repeat this miserable pattern until I'm boarding a train to some distant city, where you and I will check into the hotel, pile all the furniture against the door and not let each other go for any reason."

Greg's heart thumped. It was a mark of how strange his life had become that he couldn't think of a more perfect scenario. He liked that there was no plan in place for what came next. They would be together; everything would be fine. No further questions were needed. The world would gently and beautifully end, just for a while, and they would be happy.

"Shall we just stay on the phone tonight?" Greg said. "Put the same film on, I mean. Watch it. I know it's not much, but... well, we'd be together."

Mycroft paused.

"I'd like that," he murmured. "That would be... yes. Please, let's do that."


	4. Somewhere to Be

**Saturday 20th June**

Greg arrived not long after seven.

"Uncle Greg alert!" he called as he let himself in. There came an explosion of happy noise from the doorway into the lounge. "Did anybody order an Uncle Greg?"

Before he'd even shut the front door, she came barrelling out into the hall in her purple pyjamas, skidding a little on the laminate floor. She raced to him like it had been years, not a week.

Greg scooped her up into his arms, twirling her around in the air. Her frizzy blonde curls bounced and whirled.

"There's my Midgie," he murmured as they spun to a stop, kissing her on the cheek. She squirmed; her tiny arms clung tight around his neck. "Did you miss me, mm? Feel like I've been gone forever?"

His niece nodded against his neck, not making a sound.

Greg squeezed her gently. 

"I missed you too, squidge..." He pushed the front door shut with his shoulder, then carried her along the hall. "Let's go see everyone else, shall we? Have you had a nice day?"

"Daddy went to work," Midgie told him. "He has to do a operation."

"Yeah?" Greg said. "Your dad got called out, did he? Somebody's in trouble?"

Midgie nodded. "He's gone to make them feel better."

"He's good like that, your dad. He'll have them fixed up in no time. And I'll keep you company 'til he's home, how's that sound?"

Lisa and the twins were watching TV together in the lounge. They looked up as Greg appeared, broad smiles on every face. Danny and Evie offered their greeting in unison over their video game controllers, an identically-pitched, "Hi, Uncle Greg."

"Hello, you two." Greg leant down to kiss his sister's forehead. "H'lo, Lis. I hear Ed got called out."

"About an hour ago," Lisa said with a sigh. "I'd only just plated up his tea. He's had to take it with him in a box. Can't be helped, though."

"Suppose it's part of being a surgeon," Greg said, settling Midgie down in an armchair. "Is Reece in? Up in his lair, is he?"

"Supposedly studying. Whether that's true or not... get comfy, anyway. I'll put the kettle on."

"I, ah... might nip up and see Reece first. Pop my head round the door, see how he is."

Understanding dawned in Lisa's eyes.

"Alright," she said. She pulled together a smile. "He should be fine. He's been pre-warned. Tell me if he's not."

Though Greg's pulse quickened, he kept it off his face.

"Sure it'll be alright," he said. "He's probably forgotten about it, to be honest. Been a week."

"True. And he's got his mind on higher things." Lisa's eyes brightened. "Knock first, won't you? Give him a few seconds to pull his trousers up."

Danny let out a splutter of immediate amusement.

"Why would Reece be doing his homework with _no trousers on?"_ he demanded. Evie burst into giggles beside him. Within seconds, the two of them were in gales of laughter. "That's _so weird!"_

"You mind your business, please," their mother said. "Don't be silly. In fact, now you mention it, where's _your_ homework?"

"Oh, mum!"

"It's _Saturday!"_

"And we're fighting a boss battle!"

"And we didn't get any."

"... yeah, that's true. Mrs Philpott didn't set us any."

"Yeah, actually. She forgot."

"I think that's a _fib,_ isn't it?" Lisa said, as Greg slipped out of the room behind her and headed for the stairs, his spare change jangling in his pocket. "Just for that, both of you can go fetch your homework bags this instant. No more video games until it's done. And _no_ whining, please. You brought this on yourselves."

*

Greg's knock prompted a startled "Hang on!" from beyond the sticker-covered door. He swallowed his smile, waiting with his hands in his pockets as some shuffling went on inside. _To be seventeen again,_ he thought. With all the porn on the internet these days, it was a wonder they ever left their bedrooms at all. He'd have done little else with his time.

When Reece finally opened up the door, flushed and looking rather guilty, his eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Oh," he said, blinking at his uncle. "H'lo."

Greg gave him a smile.

"May I cross the police line?" he asked, eyeing the stripe of bright yellow tape across Reece's door. "Where did you get that, out of interest?"

"A mate," Reece said at once, flushing. "He got it from, uh... eBay. I don't know, really. He might've found it somewhere." He shrugged. "Come in, anyway."

Picking his way across the room to his computer, he gestured vaguely towards his bed. It seemed to function as a shelf for all those things which wouldn't fit on the floor.

"Grab a pew," he said, sitting down in his desk chair with a squeak. He opened his emails onto his suspiciously empty desktop. "You alright, anyway? How's the new place?"

"Nice enough," Greg said, closing the door. He spotted a slither of bare mattress and sat down on it, resting his elbows on his knees. "Not the same as being with you lot, but... well, I'm hoping it stops Helen hanging around here. That's what matters."

Reece made a vague noise.

"Hopefully," he said. He clicked open Facebook, scrolling as he talked. "Is she going to get cautioned or something? For assaulting you, I mean. I suppose it's different when it's a woman."

"Ah—no, it's not different. Assault's assault, mate. Doesn't matter who does it."

"Right."

"But it's more than that, so we're building a bigger case against her. I've put in for an injunction."

"Oh, like... a restraining order, you mean? So she can't come near you?"

"That's the one."

"Don't people violate those like, all the time?" Reece asked, peering round over his shoulder. "My mate Chloe's dad breeches his about five times a month."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Does Chloe's mum ring the police when he does? That's the point of an injunction. If he violates it, he can be arrested."

"Don't think so," Reece said vaguely. "Half the time he's there because her mum invited him over. Police're probably sick of coming over to split the fights up."

"Right," Greg said, trying not to form a professional opinion. "Well... it's like everything in life. Only useful when it's used."

Reece hummed, twirling slightly in his chair.

"Does Aunt Helen think you'll take her back if she just pushes enough?" he asked. "Is that why she's doing it?"

 _Christ,_ Greg thought, _where to start?_

"It's... complex, mate," he said. "Might be the case for some people who stalk. I think your aun-... I think _Helen's_ probably more interested in causing me trouble."

"Yeah?"

"It's about control. She doesn't like that I've... y'know, the divorce and everything. She's trying to tell me it's not that simple."

"Mmhm," Reece droned absently, still scrolling through Facebook.

Greg braced himself, supposing they should get onto the main event. If he didn't bring it up now, he never would.

"Now Helen's figured out I'm with someone new," he said, "she's started pushing things more. More than we can live with. That's why I'm getting an injunction. We'll probably end up needing one for Mycroft too."

Reece's mouth quirked.

"You lot are hilarious," he said, casting a smirk over his shoulder. "Thinking you can keep things from me."

Greg raised an eyebrow. 

"Mate, you're hilarious if you think you're the _only_ person I was keeping that from." He watched Reece return his wry gaze to the screen, scrolling. "Do you get why we're trying to keep it quiet?"

His nephew shrugged. 

"Suppose you don't want people knowing you're... y'know," he said. "Bi or gay or whatever."

"Partly," Greg said, his stomach tightening. He needed to be honest, or there was no point to this. During the taxi ride here, he'd tried to rehearse what he would say. Reece was hard to plan for, though. He always had been. The truth was the only real option. "M'working through those fears. When I was growing up, people believed a lot of dangerous stuff about men like me. You've... learned about AIDs at school, right?"

Reece nodded, not looking at Greg.

"There was a lot being said," Greg went on. "It's hard to forget some of it. The newspapers would print articles and opinion pieces that... well, people just wouldn't say that stuff today. Not outside of crazy churches in America. Times've changed a lot, but... we all end up with scars, right? And we get jumpy about them. Try and keep them covered up, so we don't get hurt again."

Reece pulled his eyes away from his screen.

"How come you ended up with Helen?" he asked. "If you're... whatever."

Greg had spent more hours wrestling with that question than he really wanted to share with a seventeen-year-old. He drew a breath, trying to form the right answer.

"It's hard when... well, when you're fine with either," he said. "You might like roughly equal numbers of men and women. Or you might like nine men for every one woman. Hell, you might like ninety-nine men for every one woman. But there's a lot of pressure to pick the straight option, fall in line and settle down, especially in certain jobs."

"Like the police?" Reece asked.

"Back when I started, yeah. Things aren't as bad now. And, when you reach a certain point in your life, there's often pressure to have kids. Means there's pressure to find someone you can produce kids with."

Reece rolled his eyes. "Mum says I'll want some when I'm thirty."

Greg responded with care.

"I never did," he said. His nephew's gaze stilled, hopeful. "Maybe you'll turn out like me and just not fancy it. Maybe you'll turn out like your mum and dad, and decide that parenthood sounds fun after all. That's to come, though. And whatever you pick, mate, it's fine. Alright?"

Reece nodded distantly, processing this for a moment. 

"So... you sort of got married out of peer pressure?" he said.

"It's more about... well, if you're a bloke and you start seeing a woman, you know everyone'll be pleased and invite you both along to stuff. If you start seeing another bloke, you know half your friends are gonna mysteriously vanish on you. People will assume all kinds of stuff. They'll do this weird pause when you say 'my boyfriend'. It weights your choices. Nudges you down certain paths."

"Right."

"And... well, there's a lot of women around who like men, but not a lot of men who like other men. Sometimes it's a numbers game."

Reece paused, trying a wary smile. "Is that why I know loads of bi girls with boyfriends?"

"Sure," Greg said, hoping this was going as well as it seemed. He tried a smile in return. "And it's why it's taken seventeen years for you to see me with a bloke."

Reece shrugged, spinning a little in his chair.

"Doesn't bother me," he said airily. "Mum and Dad both put me on blast when we got home. Threatened to take my phone off me if I told anyone. I said, listen, who am I actually gonna tell? Who's even gonna care? But..."

He shrugged again.

"Seems a nice enough guy," he said.

Greg's heart squirmed. "Mycroft?"

"Yeah. Bit posh, but... well, you could probably do with sorting out." Reece smirked, his dark eyes glittering. "No offence, Uncle G."

Greg's smile grew. He could feel his shoulders loosening for the first time since he'd left the taxi, all the tension in his chest replacing with little bubbles of pride. _You're a good kid,_ he thought, looking in Reece's eyes. _You'll be just fine._

"None taken," he said. "Keep it quiet for now, eh? Just me, your mum and dad. If anyone else gets wind of it, it might affect my divorce. I don't want things slowed down anymore."

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. My lips're sealed. Do Danny and Evie know?"

"Err, no. Not yet. They're... it's gonna be harder for them to keep a secret. Maybe tell them in a few years."

Reece's eyebrows lifted. "Years?"

Greg hesitated, wondering what had caused the surprise. "Yeah, why?"

Reece considered him for a moment, still intrigued.

"This is a proper thing then, is it?" he said.

 _Christ._ Greg chose just to nod, calmly. No teenager ever needed to see the contents of their uncle's soul. This wasn't the time to get poetic.

"Was it going on before, erm—?" Reece asked.

"No, mate. It wasn't like that. Myc and I started up in March. We'd known each other for a while, but just as friends. He's... important to me."

Reece tutted.

"I _thought_ you were perky in March," he said. "You were like the easter bunny, buying us sweets all the time. Bouncing off to work every morning. What's Mycroft do?"

_He's a sex therapist._

"He's a psychiatrist," Greg said. "Counselling and stuff."

"Fuck," Reece mumbled, eyes widening. "That _is_ posh. With a big leather armchair and a tweed jacket?"

"Ehh, there's a bit more to it than that. And let's have less of the fuck, please."

"What? This is my room."

"It's beneath your mum's roof."

 _"You_ said fuck," Reece pointed out, holding up his hands. 

"I'm allowed," Greg said. "I'm a grown up."

"Whoa, whoa," Reece said. "Same. I could get married and have a full-time job if I want. Besides, how are _you_ allowed to come into _my_ room and say fuck, when I'm not?"

"How about we both don't say fuck?" Greg suggested.

Reece shrugged. "I'll just say it when you're gone, Uncle G. Doesn't bother me."

Greg grinned, helpless. "You're alright, Reece."

"Yeah, well... I keep telling everyone. You lot'll learn to trust me sooner or later." 

Reece reached across his keyboard for an open can of Dr Pepper, tested its weight, then swirled it as if it were champagne. 

"Congrats on the boyf, Uncle G," he said. He downed the contents of the can, then put it down with a clunk. "Hope he works out for you."

*

A mug of tea awaited Greg beside his usual spot on the couch. In his absence, a plate of custard creams had appeared on the coffee table. Danny and Evie were now sprawled out in front of the TV and scribbling wearily at their homework, surrounded by scattered colouring pencils and books.

It was a sight Greg had missed.

"How was he?" Lisa asked, looking up as he padded back into the room. "I hope he didn't give you any trouble."

"Oh—Jesus, no," Greg said, sitting down. "He was brilliant. Seriously, Lis, he's a good kid. Water off a duck's back."

Pleasant surprise broadened his sister's smile.

"Well," she said. "That's a relief, anyway."

Grinning, Greg leant forwards to nab a biscuit. "How's your homework, guys? D'you need any help?"

"Boring," Evie sighed.

"Rubbish," Danny added, _"and_ boring."

"Yeah?" Greg said in sympathy. "Finish it off fast and we'll have a game of Mouse Trap. How's that sound?"

They mumbled their ascent, still scribbling away.

Before Greg could reach for another biscuit, a small figure appeared shyly in the doorway. She was holding a storybook and a stuffed yellow rabbit, dawdling just in view.

Greg put his tea aside at once. He patted his lap, both eyebrows raised.

Midgie hurried over to him, beaming. She climbed up onto the sofa, cuddled into his side and opened up her book.

"What's this one called?" Greg asked her in a whisper, smoothing back her messy curls. He could feel Lisa watching them, happy to have him home.

It was nice, having somewhere to be.

 _"Zoey and Sassafras,"_ Midgie whispered, squirming. 

"Yeah?" Greg said. "What's it about?"

Midgie patted the cover. 

"Seahorses," she told him. "Zoey's the girl. She has a cat and, um... he's orange. He's Sassafras."

"Wow," Greg murmured, watching her flip the pages back to the start. "That sounds good. Are you reading it to me, or shall I read to you?"

Midgie thought about it, squirming again.

"You read to me," she said at last with a toothy grin.

"Alright, then." Greg took a single sip of his tea as she got settled, then moved the mug carefully out of reach. "You have to help me with the big words though, alright? That's the deal."

"Okay," Midgie agreed. She tucked herself close beneath his arm. "I missed you, Uncle Greg."

Something gathered itself around Greg's heart, hot and tight. It took him a second to level his voice, easing his throat enough to speak.

"I missed you too, smidge." He kissed her head. "Let's find out about these seahorses, then."

*

Lisa waited until the children were in bed.

"How's Mycroft?" she asked, handing Greg a fresh cup of tea. Her expression was gentle, her gaze reassuring. "Is he alright after last weekend?"

_Christ, was it only last weekend?_

"He's okay," Greg murmured, blowing across the surface of his tea. "He's... well, I think he's okay. We agreed to try and keep our distance from each other, at least until the dust settles and we've got some protection. I think he's struggling with it."

Lisa settled back in her armchair. "Not seeing you, you mean?"

"Mhm." Greg paused, keeping his eyes on the TV. He wasn't used to talking about Mycroft with anyone but Mycroft. This felt a little like trying to dispense a single cup of lava from a volcano. "We, erm... we got used to seeing each other quite a bit."

"Bless him."

"He tells me every night on the phone that it's fine, but... well, he's good at saying that." Greg drew a breath. "I know him better than that by now." 

"I suppose if there's nothing you can do..."

"S'true. He's trying to be strong." _And he's not as strong as he thinks._ "I don't want to push things, coax him into meeting up. Sod's law says that'd be the day Helen decides to turn up outside again. I don't want to be responsible for tipping things from bad to worse."

Greg tried a sip of his tea, letting it settle him.

"Did I tell you she's complained to his clinic already?" he asked, glancing at Lisa.

His sister groaned. "Already?"

"Yeah. She's wasting no time."

"What're they doing about it?"

"Investigating. I went in for a meeting yesterday. Myc and I held our ground, said there's nothing to it and it's nonsense. Myc's boss is pretty hard-nosed though. She clearly likes her procedures and her policies. We'll just have to see."

"Christ," Lisa mumbled. "I hope it goes alright."

Greg gave a small shrug, brushing the worries from his mind. There was no point in entertaining the _what ifs._ It wouldn't make them disappear any faster.

"S'just a matter of evidence now," he said. "If Helen's got no evidence, she's got no case. If we just stay apart from each other for a bit, and try and block routes off before she can get down them... honestly, I'll be glad to reach the other side of this. It's wearing me down. And it's only been a week."

"Divorce is always hell," Lisa murmured, and Greg drank to it. "Everyone says."

Greg decided to allow himself a joke. 

"My fault for marrying Satan," he said.

His sister smiled helplessly, her eyes bright, both hands wrapped around her mug.

"You'll get through it," she promised. "You'll be looking back someday, wondering how you coped. The answer'll be one day a time."

 _What would I do without you?_ Greg took a moment just to gaze at her, smiling, impressing this memory in his mind. 

"S'easier," he said, "having you. The kids. Having somewhere to..." He squeezed his cup of tea. "Y'know. Feel like I'm alright for a bit."

"So long as I've got a home," Lisa said, her voice soft, "it's your home, too. For an hour or for a decade, whatever you need. You know that."

 _Christ._ "Lis, don't make me cry."

"Have you thought about... well, long term? What you'll do?"

Greg had thought about it a lot. Most nights this week, he'd quietened himself to sleep with fuzzy imaginings of the future—a home somewhere safe, sleepy Sundays making brunch, DVDs left playing as Mycroft napped against his shoulder on the couch. When he thought about sex, it was the afterglow he wanted. He missed just seeing Mycroft gaze at him, touching his face and gently saying his name. Anywhere they could do that in safety would be a better home than they had now.

Greg blew across his tea, buying time to slow his pulse.

"We've not made plans," he said. "Not really talked in any detail, to be honest."

"Would you move out of London?" Lisa asked.

 _There it is,_ Greg thought. _The big question._

"Might have to," he said, glancing at her with regret. "It's... I want to stay near you all, close as I can. But if I stick around in London, Helen'll find me sooner or later. She only needs to follow me home from work or the supermarket one night, and that's it. We don't know how much the injunction'll put her off. Might even be a fun challenge to her. So..."

Lisa smiled a little, understanding. "Would Mycroft move with you?"

Greg's stomach tugged.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I hope so, then he'd be safe as well. But it's a big thing to bring up on the phone."

Lisa nodded quietly. "I suppose it depends on his job too. Whether they..."

"Yeah. It's... I mean, there's a lot we don't know yet."

Greg glanced down into his tea, his heart strangely tight.

"A lot depends on Helen. I hate it, but it's true. This stuff, all the... the stalking, the divorce, it's just... it's _crap,_ Lis. It really is. Utter crap. Trying to act like everything's fine and life's normal so she doesn't get an emotional kick from causing a reaction in me. But I'm doing it while the whole fucking world's on fire."

He took a drink, loosening his throat.

"She's still got power over everything I do," he said. "Where I live, who I see, how I spend my time... I'm so tired of it, Lis."

His sister's gaze softened, full of sympathy.

"You _should_ move," she murmured. "It's the only way you'll get proper peace."

Greg feared as much. He feared something else as well, though.

He took a moment to pull it into shape in his mouth, not wanting this to sound pathetic.

"Myc's got a good life in London," he said at last. He hesitated, glancing up at Lisa. "A _really_ good life. Seriously, you should see his flat. Sort of place you can only really have in London."

Lisa tried a smile. "You're worried he won't go with you, aren't you?"

"I..." _Christ, how to even say this?_ "I, erm... I've not got much in my life at the minute. There's you guys and there's Myc. If I move away and I hardly ever see you all, there won't be any point to me."

"Greg..."

"I mean it, Lis. I'd rather stay here and suffer than be somewhere safe alone."

"Have you asked if Mycroft would go with you?" Lisa said, drawing her feet up into her armchair.

"Not really." Greg hesitated, wishing he could somehow calm the heat in his face. Even talking about this made him unreasonably nervous. "I'd be asking him to give up a lot. Makes me feel kinda guilty. I don't have anything to offer him but me."

"It'd be his decision though, Greg. If he wants to make that choice..."

"I know. I just... we've talked about the future a bit, and we want to be together, but... I don't know. It's easy to decide you'll take big steps together someday. It's harder to ask if someday could start right now."

Lisa drew a slow and quiet sigh.

"Talk to him," she advised, taking a sip of tea. "Then at least you'll know where you stand. You can make decisions."

Greg smiled, hoping it hid the skittish thudding of his heart. "He's got a lot on his plate at the minute."

"And?" Lisa said. "Sometimes that's how it is. Talk to him. He might be desperate for you to bring it up."

Greg tried to imagine it—their nightly phone call, half a city apart, not even able to touch as he asked Mycroft to leave his excellent job, his gorgeous home and all his social connections behind in order to start a new life with a penniless man he hadn't known for a year.

These things were easy to dream about.

They weren't nearly as easy to ask for.

"I'll mention it," he said, pulling together another smile. "Might wait until next time we're in the same room, but... well, I guess we'll have to talk about it at some point."

His sister gave him a look of quiet reassurance.

"It might be the only way," she said. "To be rid of Helen, I mean."

"Mmh."

"Otherwise she'll just keep on pushing you, hounding you... it won't end, Greg."

"S'true enough."

"She's got nothing else to do all day, has she? No job or anything?"

"Don't think so. Not unless she's got one since the split."

"Then you're her only pastime," Lisa said. Greg's heart tightened up behind his ribs. "She gets something out of tormenting you. So long as you're around and accessible, she'll keep on. You need to pack your things, take your Mycroft, box everything up and go. We'll visit, wherever you are. If you move to the moon, we'll still visit."

It took a moment for Greg to speak. He gazed at Lisa, willing his heart to settle.

"I don't really want things to get that far," he said.

"I know you don't," she murmured. "But... well, if you stay in London, Helen's the one who'll decide who far it gets."

_Christ._

"The injunction might still work, Lis," Greg said. "Let's leave the last resort as a last resort."

She had more to say. Greg could see it in her eyes, her gaze full of worries and suggestions, gently nagging doubts.

But she simply nodded, offered him a smile, and said,

"If there's anything we can do."

Greg's heart took a breath. "Just keep reminding me it exists, Lis. S'all I need right now."

"Mm?" Lisa sipped her tea. "Remind you what exists?"

Greg gestured by way of his answer—the TV they'd ignored for half an hour, the half-eaten plate of custard creams, the colouring pencils still scattered on the rug.

"The mess?" his sister said, amused. 

Greg let his smile grow. "Home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT TO EXPECT:  
> No Helen in this chapter. No peril, no danger. Just feelings. <3


End file.
